Yabu

Yabu

This story was written by me, Dave Potter, but thanks must go to Cafter Homme for the editing and corrections which have made it a better tale than it was originally.

Author’s note:

This story was inspired by the following description of the lives of women in traditional Korean society written by Isabella Jane Bird in her 1895 travelogue ‘Korea and Her Neighbours’.

It is also worth the reader acquainting themselves with traditional Korean dress. These diagrams may help:

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The information on traditional Korean hairstyles comes from this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wfUROEyt39Y

 

Chapter 1

I suppose I should start off by introducing myself. My name is Beo-Jin, Pak Beo-Jin, and I am a high school student at Park Valley Private High for Girls in California. Or at least, I was. I’m not anymore. Not a student, I mean. Like, my name’s  not even Beo-Jin. But you’ll get it later.

What I was not and am not is a “normal” girl. After all, how many “normal” Korean girls study in an expensive private high in the US? No, I don’t think so, not normal at all. That was due to my dad. His name is Pak Cha-Ek and he was one of the executive directors of Chollima Inc, a global electronics brand worth, like, billions! That’s how he had the money to send me to such a prestigious school in States, convenient since he was in charge of their American operations. Oh, he paid for everything, but that was it. He never bothered himself much with either my upbringing or my welfare, too busy making money and serving the company. A typical Korean businessman, I guess you’d say. Anyways, we weren’t close.

Nor too did my mum bother herself much about me. I mean, like,  she neither raised me nor cared for me; I was always an afterthought. My dad got together with her when he was forty-two and she was just an air-headed nineteen-year old beauty queen. My guess is she had my brother Ryu to get a ring out of my dad, cause knowing him he would’ve just dumped her for the next floozy that came along. Like he had the last. If there had ever been a “spark” between them, it was dead and gone by the time I was here, like, a year or so later. She now spends her time living off of a healthy stipend from dad, usually on the French Riviera where she bathes on yachts, gambles in casinos, and looks for new sugar daddies. Like with dad, we weren’t close.

Despite this rather fucked up family though, I wasn’t depressed or anything drama. You don’t miss what you never had, right? Like, school was alright, especially playing field hockey and soccer; I loved K-Pop, I dyed my hair ginger and did my makeup like Hyuna with no one to stop me; oh! and I loved partying with my cool Cali friends! Yeah, when you’re sixteen and rich in the sun, life ain’t bad.

1-26_hyuna_clriden_3

Or at least, mine wasn’t until the letter arrived. Dad wanted me to come home, and by home I mean Korea. He called it a “summons,” I called it a waste of time. It was only for a visit of course, or at least, that’s what I assumed. I just guessed he’d gone through one of his occasional bouts of parental guilt and wanted to show me what a great dad he actually was. Whatever. It was a bummer, as always; the summer holidays were approaching, and I’d been planning to go with Kelly down to her mum’s place in Mexico. Still, I knew better than to refuse my father. After all, if I pissed him off, my allowance could stop, and bang would go any cool plans and stuff. We all have our cross to bear, right? This was mine. Or so I thought.

The letter informed me that I had a flight booked to Seoul on the Saturday after I finished school, first class of course. It went on to say that I would be met by a car which would drive me to our house which, I was surprised to learn, was a new one that dad had some fancy architect build over the previous year. This was a total shock; why had he mentioned nothing about this a few months back when he’d popped over to LA for business? The letter also mentioned that he had now taken on a new job, from Chollima to Chongsanri, of which he was now Vice President again. You have no idea, I almost, like, screamed. Chollima was big, but Chongsanri was, like, HUGE! The leading Korean tech outfit by a mile. My God, what must dad be making now?! It didn’t really matter, it was good news for me!

Ahh, if only we had the benefit of hindsight!

As promised, I got picked up at Incheon Airport by a blank-faced lackey chauffeur who showed me towards a limo with blacked-out windows. I settled in the back, made myself a coffee from the minibar and watched the world go by. Seoul soon faded away and we were well into the countryside. I was puzzled. Dad had always preferred city life, and in Korea that means Seoul or bust!

Still we drove on and on, up into the mountains. Then, somewhere near to Pyeongchang, we headed off up some creepy side road that made me mistrust the dumb chauffeur, winding through forested slopes until we came to the house itself. Let me tell you, it was not what I had expected.

It was an unsurprisingly large place for Dad but, weirdly, it was built in a very traditional style, like super old fashioned like some sort of Buddhist temple with a walled compound and large pavilions and stuff. Actually at first, you might’ve thought it was ancient; it was only upon a closer look that the modern details became obvious. The car swung into the courtyard and I was shown out by the driver. There to meet me was some maid I had never seen before dressed in like a full, traditional hanbok. Weird. She bowed towards me and told me to follow her, but like, her accent was strange, and I couldn’t place it. Either way I did as she asked, and she led me into one of the pavilions, down some corridors and into a large bedroom furnished in that same old, traditional style. And believe this, on the bed was this ridiculous outfit.

“Your father is busy right now,” said the maid, “but he will meet you for dinner. Please bathe and then dress in the clothes on the bed. If you need a hand, please ring. Otherwise, I shall return at six to show you to him.” And then, with those oddly-formal words, she left.

I was so confused. The opulence was something, but like not that strange?

But all the emphasis on tradition just puzzled me. I mean, you have to understand, Dad had never been that kind of guy. And the outfit that I had to put on matched the surroundings: it was a hanbok. I had worn hanboks before, of course – which Korean girl hasn’t? – but only for special occasions like graduations. But why one today for just a meal with my father? Still, weird as it was, I was super glad to change after the flight, and besides, it was pretty!

I bathed in the adjacent shower and then returned to the room naked. First up was the underwear, which looked like it had come out of the fuckin’ Ark with Moses or something. I was really tempted to put my good Western lingerie back on, but it was a little bit stinky from the long flight so I decided to bite the bullet. Next came the sokchima or underskirt which was supported by hoops, so wide that it was about a metre and a half at the bottom. Then came the chima or skirt which was a golden colour and covered with some super gorgeous embroidery. After that was the jeogori which was in black and also beautifully embroidered. I tied off the otgoreum just below my small, firm breasts. Finally, there were some pretty beoseum socks for my feet and white silk gloves for my hands. After fitting these I looked at myself into the mirror and nearly burst out laughing! Apart from my dyed ginger hair and 21st century make-up, I could have been a girl from the Joseon Dynasty. This was getting to be just ridiculous.

How little did I know.

At six the maid returned to escort me to my father.

gold hanbok

 

Chapter 2

What transpired that evening over dinner is seared into my memory forever. I often replay it over and over in my mind, and it always gives me like serious goosebumps. On that evening my life changed, irreversibly.

What struck me first was his costume. Ok, so I was wearing a hanbok already, but in Korea many girls do, especially on special occasions. But dad had on the male hanbok, something no guy ever does except maybe when he’s like getting married or something. But there he was, sitting at the table, sipping soju and looking like an extra out of one of those period dramas on TV. Weird.

That was only the start, though. Then came the sudden change in attitude. Suddenly he was all formal with me as if he had somehow changed. The word that comes to mind when I think about it is ‘brainwashed’. Yes, like as if someone or something had washed out his old, corporate, money-making brain and replaced it with something straight out of the nineteenth century. He was formal and particular and although we discussed nothing really beyond small talk and pleasantries during the meal, in my gut I just knew something was up. I also noticed that he didn’t really even ask me about school either, and when I started to tell him about my time on the beach and parties with my American friends, he was clearly uninterested. All he would say was, “Some things are going to change.”

After dinner we chilled out in a traditional sitting-room and after I pressed him a bit more he explained to me what. It was all to do with him moving to Chongsanri. The corporation, at least in it’s highest echelons, seemed to have a very different philosophy than Chollima, or really the rest of the country. At all of dad’s previous jobs it had all been about making money as quickly as possible, but Chongsanri was something else entirely. Chongsanri was all about Korea. To paraphrase another slightly-deranged demagogue, their president was obsessed with trying to make Korea great again. And in my dad he had apparently found a willing disciple.

“The problem is that we try to ape the foreigners, the Westerners, the Chinese, even the Japanese, all those who have oppressed us in the past. We mimic their business methods, their Christian religion, their mode of dress, their tinny pop music and even their hair colour.” He looked at my ginger locks when he said this and I felt uneasy. “But we are not Western, nor Chinese, nor Japanese. We are Koreans! A great nation, millennia old, glorious and cultured! Yet it is as if we are ashamed of our heritage, as if we try to hide it. At Chongsanri they are trying to change that. We are prosperous, yet also true to our Korean roots. We provide jobs for Korean people and extoll Korean culture. Look at this country and the sorry state that it is in! I know this sounds incredible, but even the North, that poverty-stricken, dictator-dominated hellhole, even they are better than us. At least the Kims that they worship were true Koreans who battled the outsiders, not gave in to them or aped them. They glory in their identity! None of their women dye their hair, and their music sounds like true Korean music should. And their women are chaste too! None of this sex before marriage and cohabitation. Compared even to them, we are cultural paupers!”

As he was speaking all this nonsense, like I totally recognised the strange accent of the maid. She was from the North!

“My new boss, Kwon Yong-Byok, the CEO of Chongsanri, has shown me an alternative way, and I have embraced it. I now live as a businessman, yes, but also as a true Korean. This house for starters; it is like the houses that our ancestors dwelt in, except that there is a crucial difference: technology. Back then people died early, got sick, endured the cold and many other deficiencies in life, because the technology was not there. We were vulnerable to domination because of this. What Yong-Byok and now I do, is live in the traditional Korean way but with technology on hand to help us to enhance that wonderful mode of life even further. So the house for example, it has ondol heating as is typically Korean, but the heated vapours are geothermally generated and time-controlled. We have taken tradition and refined it with technology. The happy news is that our family can now live in an almost perfect, original, Korean manner.”

“But dad, like, I’m at school in America, so is Gyu. And mum is, well, mum is wherever she is…”

“No, Beo-Jin, you were at school in America. The old me sent you there. But I have summoned you back here because we’re going to start living as a family again and we are going to live in a true Korean fashion. You shall not be returning to your school; from now on you’ll live here as a proper Korean girl.”

“Fuck that, like, no way! I want to return to Cali! My friends are there and–”

“Lesson Number One, Beo-Jin: Korean society is Confucian. We obey our parents. When I say that you shall be living here, then you shall be living here.” His voice wasn’t angry, but unforgiving.

“But I don’t want to! And besides, up here in the mountains, like, we’re away from everything that means anything. I mean, I’ll be fair, it’s like nice and all, but there’s no school, no jobs, no opportunities. Do you even have wifi?”

“Beo-Jin, you will not be returning to school. It is unnecessary. A Korean girl’s destiny in life is to marry and become an honourable wife to her husband. School will not teach you that, certainly not the schools that you have been attending up till now. From tomorrow onward you will be living at home and learning your future duties as a submissive and honourable wife.”

“Jesus, Dad, I’m sixteen! I don’t want to marry, like, for ten years, at least! I want a career and to go out with my friends and…”

“Silence! There will be no speak of false western idols in my home! What you want is immaterial! A Korean girl’s destiny is to obey her parents and then her husband. And sixteen is a perfectly suitable age to be married. Indeed, in the Joseon Era girls were often wed well before then. Besides, you are not ready yet. You need training to become a suitable wife and that will take time.”

“No, dad, no! This is my life, not yours and I’m not some stupid fucking submissive drone who is going to be ordered about by a man. This is not the nineteenth century, it’s like, the twenty-first! We’ve had a sexual revolution, or haven’t you realised that? I love you dad, but I will not live as you want! I’m sorry but that is that!”

And with those words his face changed. I’d expected anger, but instead he just looked defeated and disappointed. He slumped in his chair and poured out another measure of soju. “This is too much, too fast, I suppose,” he said.

“Yeah, it is,” I replied, glad that he was speaking like a human being again.

“Ok, we’ll see about amending things then. Forget what I said for now and drink some tea with me.” He poured a cup from an exquisite Joseon Era teapot and I raised it to my lips. It tasted really nice and wasn’t too hot, so I drained the tiny cup in one.

Within seconds my sight began to blur, and I slumped to the floor in a faint.

 

Chapter 3

I awoke in the floor-level bed in that traditional bedroom where I’d changed after first arriving, feeling pretty strange. Then I realised that under my head was not a usual pillow but a traditional Korean buckwheat pillow in its hard, bundled rolls. Raising my head, it felt strangely heavy, so annoyed and confused I got up and walked to the mirror. What I saw shocked me.

My ginger styling was all gone and instead I had natural, jet black hair again! More than that, this hair was long, very long, reaching past my waist when unpinned from the top of my head. That was the weight I had felt. But what had happened? Obviously, I had been drugged and during the time I had been out they’d dyed my hair black. But what about the length? I checked. Extensions. Hmm… Nothing else seemed different. Why would my deranged father drug me just to redo my hair? He must be going mad!

I took off my slip and checked my body all over. The hair was gone from down between my legs, which was a bit disconcerting, but that was all. Oh yes, and a small mark like a tiny incision or a bug bite just above my love slit. What was it? Hmm…

That same maid came in. “You are awake, Miss Beo-Jin. Please, bathe yourself and then let me prepare you,” she said with her Pyongyang accent.

I took a shower and then came back. Lain out on the bed was another hanbok, this time with a yellow chima and a pink jeogori. “I’d prefer a different outfit,” I told her.

“There are only hanboks in this house,” she replied.

I was naked and my suitcase was nowhere to be found so, reluctantly, I put it on. Then she sat me down and started doing my hair in an elaborate fashion. “Please, just a ponytail,” I said. It was starting to become obvious what was happening.

“Your father orders this style,” she replied simply.

I knew there and then that I had to put a stop to this before it went too far. “Fuck what my father wants,” I told her. “This is my hair! My body! Haven’t you people heard of like, feminism?”

And then I got up and dashed out of the room. I had to get out of here, to escape. Dad obviously wasn’t going to observe my wishes, so to hell with him! I expected her to try and stop me, but to my surprise she just nodded and passively let me get away. Hurriedly, I walked down the corridor to the courtyard. I crossed the courtyard to the main gate. It was ajar. I went to go through it when suddenly like this piercing pain racked my body, like an electric shock starting at my genitals and coursing outwards. I tried to push myself through, but the pain was too great, like fire and ice all at once coming from my mound! I jumped back, and it subsided. What the fuck was that!? I turned around to see my father and the maid standing on the pavilion, silently. He was smiling. “You cannot leave,” he said calmly.

“What the fuck was that!?” I demanded.

“Your new implant. It was inserted whilst you were asleep. It ensures obedience. Whenever you try to leave the woman’s quarters of our home, it will activate. I am sorry to do this to you, but you need to be taught how to become an honourable Korean woman. You will be punished whenever you try to leave or whenever I feel it is necessary. Your maid informs me that you refused to have your hair styled correctly. Beo-Jin, I will give you another chance because this life is new to you. Return to your chamber and prepare yourself accordingly. I am your father.”

I stood my ground. “Forget it! I’m not your doll to be made up and kept in a cage, let me go!!”

And I stormed past the invisible line again and my pussy instantly contracted in pain while the rest of my body contorted, trying to dispel the intense shock, the pain, but it was no use, I retreated back toward them.

My father was not smiling anymore. “Beo-jin! You will be punished for your insolence, return to your chamber!”

I wanted to object, to counter, to rebel, but the memory of the pain was too horrific. Like the submissive Korean girl that he wanted me to be, I returned to my room and let his maid prepare me.

She sat me down on a chair and then started to work, combing my long hair out, parting it down the centre and then plaiting it into a long ponytail. This was then rolled up and fastened low behind my head. A black padded form with red silken ends was then attached to the top of my head using pins and long platts of real human hair brought out, each over a metre long. I later learned that these, like the maids, came from the North, with Chongsanri paying huge quantities for North Korean girls to donate their hair. The platts were wrapped around my head and the form and then attached with pins creating a high and round structure but revealing the red silk end of the padded form. This was then decorated with jewellery, I admit really exquisite stuff if I hadn’t been furious by that point.

“This style is called eoyeo meori,” she explained in a neutral voice when she had finished. “It was the usual style for noble women of the Joseon Era to wear their hair, and so your father has decreed that this is the style for you to wear every day. On special events I shall do your hair in a more elaborate fashion.”

More elaborate! This style had taken the best part of an hour to complete and it was so difficult to wear! The weight was tremendous, and it jangled whenever I moved. And I was expected to endure this every day!

But that was not all.

Eoyeo Meori

Next came the make-up. Turns out I was not to leave my room without being made-up from now on. Defeated and passive, I sat there whilst she started the process, applying a really thick coating of white foundation to my entire face and then white powder to create a sort-of porcelain look. Whilst she did this, I tried to engage her by asking her name and so on, but her replies were neutral: “I am only a maid”, “My age does not matter, mistress” and so on. She wouldn’t even admit to being North Korean. “Where the master hired me from is unimportant,” she blithely said. I was starting to really hate this bitch.

After my face, my eyes were done with a variety of cosmetics, including black eyeliner and false lashes to emphasise my femininity. Then came the brows, thin black lines drawn high to emphasise my haughtiness. And finally, the mouth, a pair of red rosebud lips. The china doll was complete. Well, almost. The finishing touch was a pair of white cotton gloves for my hands and that was it.

My first day had no lessons. The maid said that I was to get used to my clothes and my surroundings. It was so weird, just pacing around in that fine dress, the ridiculously wide hooped skirt bumping into things and my heavy hair feeling unsteady as it jangled away. I warily drank tea, and explored the house, or at least, the little I could. Many doors were locked and only one courtyard open to me. When I say “locked,” you might think the doors wouldn’t open, but they did, the whole complex was technically ‘open,’ it just sent powerful ripples through my implant whenever I tried, warning pulses that quickly turned to pain when I looked through, or worse, stepped over the threshold. These were the women’s quarters, and I was barred from the rest, kept modest and pure in my own little prison. I seethed with anger but knew that there was nothing that I could do… yet.

That evening I dined with father again. He was full of praise for my new appearance and called me a “proper Korean maiden”. What a fucking joke I must have looked like, I felt sick to my stomach but said nothing, remembering the pain all too clearly. Whenever I spoke for too long, I would see his hand wander into the pocket of his robes, no doubt waiting for me to say something out of turn. I had no desire to re-live that pain, though, so I gave him no reason to chastise me. Turns out he already had reason enough.

That evening, my head and neck aching from the weight imposed upon it and the trauma of the day, and I looked forward to bed and a chance to become a normal human being again, but bedtime too held some nasty surprises. The maid helped to undress me but then came something that caught me like totally off guard: with a firm grasp she grabbed by wrists and handcuffed them behind my back. Then she led me to the shower and attached the handcuffs to a hook on the wall. After this I was washed thoroughly by her before then being led back into the bedroom and leant over a chair. “Your father has decreed that your misdemeanours be punished. These include any form of disobedience or unladylike behaviour. There have been countless today, but he has told me to go easy on you because it is your first day as a real Korean lady. So, I shall only administer ten strokes for the most heinous.” And then, taking out a large wooden paddle, that pious bitch stood behind me and…

Thwack!

“That is for refusing to have your hair styled.”

Thwack!

“That is for attempting to escape.”

Thwack!

“That is for swearing at your father.”

Thwack!

“That is for swearing at me.”

Thwack…

That night I lay in my bed and tears streamed down my face whilst my bottom was like red raw. Worse still, my hands, encased in padded gloves, were tied to a belt around my waist so I could not dry those tears, whilst my legs were immobilised, encased in a long single stocking with my feet tightly bound in the end, so there would be no nocturnal wandering or touching myself, as I had grown very used to doing every other night back in California. Even this was off limits now.

My life had descended into hell.

Chapter 4

And so, my new life began.

Every day I awoke, was showered and then dressed in my sumptuous yet restrictive outfit. Then I attended lessons with my tutor, another North Korean. These were neither interesting nor educational, absolutely nothing like my school in Cali. Instead they were a series of phrases that I had to repeat over and over again. Phrases like “Silence is regarded as a wife’s first duty” or “A wife must be chaste and pure.” With time I realised that they served a dual purpose: to educate me in my new station and to break my spirit. If I made any mistakes they were rewarded with paddles on my bottom before bedtime and for the first few months my bum was always red and sore. I felt like a goddamn child, it was so messed up!

My misery did not end with these lessons though. For the rest of the day (basically the afternoons) my time was my own, but there was so little that I could do now, I was like bored out of my mind. I was officially confined to the female quarters which meant my bedroom, my classroom, a sitting room and dining room and a small courtyard. I was by all means a prisoner, and so in my spare time all I could do was pace around the tiny confines of my prison and wish I was outside. Even that though, was not unobstructed. After my first day, my tutor decreed that my gait was unfeminine and not suitable for a Korean lady. “A noble lady should glide in her hanbok, not prance!” she declared. And so, I was fitted with two straps: the first a thick band of material that was tied just above the knees and the second a leather strap of some twenty centimetres or so fastened to bands that went around my ankles. Now I could only glide – or shuffle – along at a snail’s pace and ascending or descending any steps was like super hard.

In the evenings I still dined with my father elsewhere in the house, and although I now truly hated him, I looked forward to the experience just as a change from the simplistic daily schedule. He would speak at length (not really to me, but at me) about the Chongsanri Corporation and its vision for the rejuvenation of the country. He spoke of the CEO, Kwon Yong-Byok, as if he were a god and spoke of future plans and ideas.

I did not rebel. It is true that in those first few weeks I made several off-hand derogatory remarks to him, instantly resulting in extremely painful contractions in my pussy, but I soon gave that up as it became de-rigueur for me to be gagged after the meal so he could talk at me without interruption. This gag consisted of a large white plastic intrusion with a white leather panel on the end and a strap that reached around my head, buckled at the back. It looked simple but it must have been connected in some way, as every time I groaned or sighed I was rewarded with an appropriately-sized shock below. Dad lauded this gag as an example of how Chongsanri had improved upon the traditional ways. I felt absolutely humiliated, especially since it had ‘A female’s duty is to be silent’ in hangul characters on the front of the panel.

I was docile not just because I remembered the pain, but also because I knew that now was not the time. At our first dinner together after my new life had begun, dad had mentioned that Ryu would also be forced to adopt a traditional lifestyle. I imagined my younger brother, used to his American high school, wandering around in a male hanbok pretending to be some yangban from yore and smiled. Yes, he would never accept that. He would be my ally. Until then, I could wait and endure the charade.

To pass the time it was decreed that I be allowed “feminine pursuits”. If I did well in my lessons I was allowed to paint traditional Korean pictures with an inkbrush or write a scroll in hangul characters. Once I wrote a really nice poem, but using the English alphabet, a “crime” for which I received no less than twenty-six paddles, one for each alien letter. Korean girls, apparently, are only allowed to write Korean characters.

Yes, it was that ridiculous.

Even that pleasure however, was not always allowed to me. Concerned about my unfeminine behaviour, in the women’s quarters I was never far from a maid or my tutor, even when I was supposed to be having free time in the courtyard. Combine this with my sleeping situation, unable to move my hands or legs at all, it didn’t take very long for me to start skipping off to the bathroom in search of privacy. One day during the part of my cycle that always makes me hot and needy, and after I had worked up the courage, I found myself in the bathroom with nowhere to sit (traditional korean toilets are embedded in the floor), determined to get off somehow. Thinking ahead I pried off the tight white gloves, hiked up my massive chima skirt and brought my fingers down, past the faint implant scar to touch my clit, only to receive the most intense, body-wracking shock since my first day here, leaving me sobbing and spasming on the ground, getting my dress all dirty. smearing my makeup, attracting the attention of every maid in the compound.

After this incident, another item was added to my wardrobe, a sort of sleeve which went over my arms when they were crossed in front of my breast, covering them completely. This looked elegant enough, but what a casual observer could not see was that underneath the hanging cloth, my forearms were bound together in a laced sleeve, making use of my hands impossible. This was initially instituted for walking in the courtyard only, but gradually I was expected to wear it inside as well, sometimes for an entire afternoon, greatly hampering my precious free time, restricting my allowed feminine pursuits. And, as the weather grew colder, a new and even more cumbersome item was added. This was a kind of all-encompassing veil that left only my face free and from October to April was decreed mandatory outdoors.

About a month after my captivity began, a new figure entered the household. She was introduced as Mi-So and she was extremely beautiful yet also North Korean like all the other servants. What shocked me was that she dressed in sumptuous gowns just like me and had her hair done in the eoyeo meori style as I did. Unlike the other servants, she joined dad and me at dinner, sitting like really close to him, and afterwards she would play the traditional gayageum exquisitely well or even dance for us. I was in awe of her.

After a couple of days, I saw her sitting in the women’s courtyard alone and so slowly, gracefully, I approached her. Unlike the other servants, she was happy to talk to me. She told me that she was a gisaeng and when I expressed ignorance at the term, she explained that it is like the Japanese geisha, something of a cross between a courtesan and an artiste. She explained that she came from Pyongyang originally and because of her musical talents and expertise at dance, she had been sent to the premier school in the North Korean capital where girls are trained in such things to the highest standard, called a gwonbeong. She had expected, as all the girls in her class did, to graduate and go on to serve the Motherland either in an artistic troop or a teaching capacity, but then one day, some esteemed visitors from the Chongsanri Corporation had come to the school and watched the final year students put on a performance. Afterwards, five of the girls who had taken part were summoned to the Party Office and told that they had been chosen to serve the Motherland by becoming employees of Chongsanri and practising their arts in the decadent south. Although shocked at first, they had been assured that the Marshall wished this of them and that they would be well-paid which, Mi-So assured me, she was, although 90% of that money went straight to the state. And so she had come with four friends – deemed to be the prettiest of their year – and a busload of other Chongsanri employees, over the border near Kumgangsan and up to the mountain mansion complexes of the Chongsanri elite (it transpired that all of dad’s co-executives and their homes were situated within a few miles of each other, a veritable ministate of traditional values). This whole story fascinated me, and I was glad to be able to share my lonely life with someone, although I now felt uncomfortable in the evenings as my father would openly fondle Mi-So, pushing his hand under her jeogori and slapping her bottom whilst she would kiss him passionately on the mouth.

Indeed, as time progressed, it became de rigueur for me to be dismissed straight after dinner, though this did not always save me from the gag.


My heart trembled with excitement as my maid assembled my new hairstyle. In view of the auspicious occasion, it had been decreed that I would wear the tteoguji meori style, which is even more elaborate and difficult to wear than the eoyeo meori as it involves adding to that style an enormous black wooden ornament, the tteoguji, which is fastened to the hair by means of pins and ribbons. Even this added encumbrance I did not mind however… for my brother was coming home!

tteoguji meori.png

I minced towards the main chamber in a purple hanbok which I had to admit was nice, arms bound in front of me as was becoming more and more common, excited to see my brother and make him aware of my plight. The door was opened for me to reveal him seated already for dinner with dad and, to my surprise, Mi-So and another gisaeng who had her gloved hand resting on his thigh. Furthermore, he was already dressed in a traditional male hanbok. This did not look good, I thought to myself.

We ate making only small talk, Gyu complimenting me on my beauty and dad saying how much I had changed for the better. I scrutinised his face for clues to the anger I wanted to see, but he remained impassive. And then, after dinner, I was dismissed, leaving the two men alone with their gisaeng.

The following day though, I got my chance. He came to the women’s quarters, walking through the forbidden door like it was nothing, and asked that I be excused from lessons to walk around the courtyard with him. As he was a man, this was not refused.

As soon as we were alone I began pouring my heart out to him and warning him of the dangers to both of our futures. To my surprise – and dismay – though, he merely frowned and replied, “Beo-Jin, what you say is wrong. I can understand how hard this is for you, I really can; after all I was an American high school student myself only a few weeks ago, but what choice do we have? Dad controls all the money and to disobey him would be to cut ourselves off from our future. And besides, what’s so wrong with this whole traditional thing anyway? Why should we Koreans forever be aping the Americans? We were wrong you know, to try to be like them; we’ve got an ancient culture of our own that’s rich and…”

I wanted to slap him across the face, bring him to his senses, but my arms were laced together pretty securely. “Gyu, come on man! You’re sounding like him now! Look at us in these ridiculous clothes, like we’re in some costume drama or something. It’s a fucking joke and not a funny one. And you don’t even understand, I’ve got some sort of sensor implanted in me that shocks me when I wander off! I’m a prisoner here and all I can do is fucking recite lines, paint random shit, and strut around this fucking courtyard. Help me, bro, this is hell!”

“Beo-Jin, you always were too rebellious. What’s wrong with you being feminine for once in a while. And besides, I like this life. Back in the States I was too geeky, none of the girls looked at me yet here I’ve got Mun-Ju who is hot as anything and what we did last night…”

“You mean, you accept it because dad gave you a gisaeng slave to fuck!”

“Not just one, he’s promised another and he’s shown me the girl I’ll be marrying; she’s a total babe… in a Joseon Era kind of way of course.”

“Marrying?”

“Yeah, President Kyon Yong-Byok’s youngest daughter. She’s fifteen now so it won’t be for a year or so but the engagement is official and in the meantime there’s Mun-Ju and…”

“I can’t believe you, Gyu! You’d sacrifice your own sister for the sake of your dick! Help me here bro, I need to get out of here! I have to leave, Gyu, or I’ll go mad!”

“Well, relax then sis, because you will be leaving. Dad arranged it this afternoon.”

“What do you mean? How?”

“Why do you think I’m here, Beo-Jin? Me and dad celebrated your engagement this morning. On the fifteenth of next month you’ll be getting married to Kyon Yong-Byok’s son and heir, Yong-Gon.”

Chapter 5

The day before my wedding my life changed forever. For most people it is on the day on the actual wedding but for me it was the day before. Because on that day my father did something to me, something so cruel, so inhumane, so… words fail me, even today.

Like, literally.

I had received all the pre-wedding indoctrination of course. Hour after hour of it, going through every detail of the ceremony, how I should behave and what would happen to me. But one thing above all was stressed over everything else. “Silence is regarded as a wife’s first duty. During the whole of the marriage day the bride must be as mute as a statue. If she says a word or even makes a sign she becomes an object of ridicule, and her silence must remain unbroken even in her own room.” My tutor had repeated those words over and over again until my head rang with them. Of course, I did not intend to obey. In fact, inwardly I smiled. This was my chance, and seriously, like, low-hanging fruit! I didn’t want to get married and I hated my dad for how he had ruined my life, and this was to be my revenge: silent! You could forget it! I would be as loud, rude, obnoxious and unfeminine as a girl possibly can be when dressed in an elaborate outfit with a ridiculous hairstyle. And as for the electric shocks, well, would they dare to use them in public? Of course not. That would reveal I was being held against my will! This was my moment!

That evening after dinner I asked my father if I could go back to my room, thinking of painting a picture, as these days that was the best option to kill the time. However, waiting for me there was a stranger whom I had never seen before. She had the white coat of a nurse and she looked pretty serious. “What is this?” I asked in surprise.

“Oh, nothing to worry about,” she replied as my maid grabbed hold of me from behind and a needle was plunged into one of my bound arms.

I awoke soon afterwards and found that barely an hour had passed. I was just lying on my bed still clothed. I sat up. Nothing seemed to have changed. They had not disrobed me or done anything immediately apparent. So, what had happened? I rang for the maid and she entered immediately. “What was that all about?” I demanded angrily.

Except that the words did not come out of my mouth. Nothing did. Air flowing without a sound.

I shouted, and I screamed, I called her the bitch she was, but silence reigned. “You have been muted, mistress,” explained the maid. “It is your father’s wedding gift to you, a means of helping you stay honourable during the ceremony. He told me to tell you that it is the latest Chongsanri invention, and a brilliant example of how technology can help us women lead a proper, traditional lifestyle.” Then her expression hardened, and her tone changed. “He also instructed me to warn you that, if you try any funny business during the ceremony, the same can be done with your hearing.”

I sank to the floor in shock, testing myself, hoping even a hum would escape my throat, but there was nothing.

Late that night my father, brother, and I sacrificed before the ancestral tablets, and acquainted our ancestors with the event which was to occur on the morrow. It all passed by like a dream, no, definitely a nightmare.


When the auspicious day arrived, an hour before noon, my bridegroom on horseback, and in court dress, left his father’s house accompanied by two men who walked before him, one carrying a white umbrella, and the other, who was dressed in red cloth, carrying a goose, which is the emblem of conjugal fidelity. He was also attended by several men carrying unlit red silk lanterns, by various servants, and by his father. Upon reaching our house he took the goose from the hands of the man in red, went into the house, and laid it upon a table.

I record all of this but I did not witness it. My maid and the other servants informed me enthusiastically, concentrating on the symbolism of each item. Later, when I learnt that fidelity in a Korean marriage is only ever expected of the woman, the goose seemed particularly ironic.

I heard but not witnessed this because of how I was dressed. That I wore an extremely cumbersome hanbok with a sleeve that immobilised my arms is not worth mentioning, nor too a ridiculous elaborate and heavy hairstyle, a variant on the tteoguji meori style. Such things I expected by this stage. What I did not expect was the make-up.

korean wedding.png

For a traditional Korean wedding, the bride’s face is covered with a thick layer of white powder, patched with spots of red. When they had finished I looked like one of those Japanese geisha in the films. That, however, was not all: after they had done my face, they moved onto the eyes. Surprisingly, no eye make-up was done but instead an adhesive compound was applied to my eyelids which were then glued together, after which the white powder was smeared over them too.

I went through the entire ceremony blind, unable even to open my eyes!

I was led out by two attendants to the room where the ceremony was to take place and then instructed to bow twice to my “lord”, after which he bowed four times to me. This alone made the marriage valid. A cup of wine was then given to my bridegroom, who drank a little, after which it was handed to my maid, who gave me a sip.

And that was it. Afterwards within the house, my now-husband and the other men were served an elaborate feast, but I merely retired to the women’s rooms. He rejoiced with his friends in the men’s apartments but we women got no simultaneous banquet.

Then, during the afternoon my husband returned to his father’s house, and after a time I, still bundled up in a mass of wedding clothes, and with my eyelids still sealed, attended by the two maids, some hired girls, and men with lanterns, went there too, in a rigidly closed chair, in the gay decorations of which red predominates. I was received by my father and mother-in-law, to whom the maid instructed me to bow four times. Then I was taken upstairs to the wedding chamber where I was disrobed completely, my hairstyle dismantled and the powder washed from my face and my body showered. The eyelid adhesive however, stayed. I was then taken to the bed and my wrists chained to the posts and there I waited.

I did not wait long. My unseen husband came and took me with vigour. It was my first experience of lovemaking and, after the initial pain, one of the most intense. Perhaps it was because I didn’t even know what this man who was inside of me looked like, or perhaps it was because I was so silent and passive, so in his control. Perhaps it was because I had not been able to get myself off in months. I cannot say. That though, was my wedding night.

Chapter 6

I woke up to my husband climbing on top of me again. During the night the eyelid adhesive had worn off (I later learnt that it was designed – by Chongsanri – to last for twelve hours maximum) and so this time I saw who was inserting himself into me. The good news is that he was passably handsome.

The bad news though, far outweighed the good. After he had finished and removed himself from me, he untied me from the bed and helped me to sit up. Then he explained my future.

“Like your father and my father, I too believe in a traditional lifestyle, augmented by modern technology, of course” he began. “Unlike them, I doubt it will lead to the rejuvenation of the nation or any other similar claptrap. I guess you could say that your new husband is a bit more cynical although, on second thoughts, I guess you can’t say anything.” He laughed at this cruel joke and I immediately decided that I hated the man I had been married to.

“Your life from now on will be simple. You are my wife and that is your whole purpose in life from this moment forward. Your former name will no longer be used. In accordance with tradition, people will refer to you as ‘the wife of Kwon Yong-Gon’. I, on the other hand, shall refer to you as ‘Look here!’ (Yabu). Apparently, this was the norm in traditional Korean society because your duty is to look to me when I call. Without fault, do you hear? Nod. Ok good. After that your duties include remaining chaste and silent (no issues there I’m sure, ha, ha!), and to provide me with offspring so as to continue the respected Kwon family line. That means sex, of course, and you’ll be glad to know that I love sex. Indeed, one could almost say that I am addicted to it and so we’ll be having a lot of it. Your duty is always to accept my advances, whatever your own feelings. As you can clearly see, a Korean wife has clearly recognised duties to her husband, but just so you know, he has few, if any, to her. I will always treat you with respect in public, for you are mine and so to disrespect you brings shame on me. Furthermore, you will want for nothing. However, as was the norm in Joseon Era society – and this is why I love the traditional ideal so much – whilst I demand chastity and fidelity from you, you may not demand it of me. I keep gisaeng in this house and you must welcome them and show them respect. I do not look for affection in marriage, but who knows, maybe we shall find it? You are certainly prettier than I expected, and, despite your natural inexperience, I enjoyed last night and this morning.”

He paused as if to take stock and noticed my confused expression. “Yabu, you wonder why I say all this to you?” It wasn’t my main question but I nodded. “I guess I have a streak of sadism in me. Like you, I have lived in the west and learnt from it. Feminism, yada yada. I feel for your plight, the silence, ridiculous clothes and hair, lack of freedom and everything, but at the same time it turns me on. That is how I am, Yabu. Your duty is to submit, however distasteful that might be.”

Disgusted with his callousness, I yelled nothing, shook my head, and pummelled him with my unbound fists in an act of pathetic resistance. He laughed and took my weak wrists in his hands. “Such disobedience should be punished and I can’t wait to land a slap on that beautiful rounded bottom of yours!” he exclaimed. I tried to back away and he laughed again. “Not now, Yabu, not in our wedding bed.”  He paused again and then reached forward, grabbed me and forced my face to his, kissing me with gusto, exploring my mouth with his tongue. I tried to bite down but he was too quick and, strangely, although he angered me, his actions excited me too. “By God Yabu, you turn me on!” he declared, when he finally extracted himself from me. He put his left arm round me and started to explore my body with his right hand, squeezing my breasts and stroking the bottom that he had just praised. Handled against my will, hating my body’s instincts, I began to desire him.

“Hmm, Yabu, I think you and I will enjoy each other as well as hate each other. However, that is for later. I must say, you are much better than I thought you would be – and far better naked than in that awful bridal outfit – but there are still areas of concern. These tits for starters! Pert, yes, but way too small for my tastes. I was in the west a long time, you know.” I began to hate him again and my desire faded slightly. “Not very Korean I know, wanting big tits; my father would not be impressed, but I cannot change how I am and you are mine, Yabu, to do what I want with. However, before that, I need to explain some things to you.”

This guy needed the same procedure I had, I thought to myself. I wanted to ask him what he meant by doing what he wanted with, but, mute as I was – and still am – I could not.

“You know your duties as a wife and you know how you will live – much as you did with your father, in predetermined spaces and roles, yes. However, what you do not know is how I operate my household. I studied Psychology at uni – can’t you tell? – and I guess I am a bit of a disciple of Skinner. Hmm, Yabu, your confused look suggests that you don’t know who he was? Well, he believed in a theory of reward and punishment to motivate people and so that is what I shall institute here. I demand sex from you whenever I want it, but what I cannot demand is your enjoyment or the quality of sex that I am accustomed to. Therefore, it is up to you. If you please me sufficiently, I shall reward you. If you fail in your duties, I shall punish you. I believe that your father already instituted a paddling regime; good man. Personally though, I prefer to smack a rounded bottom with my own hand. Your punches earlier, they warrant a smack or two for example. Punishment alone though, does not work.

“Yabu, every day you will dress in full hanbok and eoyeo meori hairstyle as in your father’s house. Here however, you will also wear the arm sleeve as a matter of course. That is to say, silent as you are, denied of the use of your arms, you shall be largely unable to communicate. Your maid will feed you and attend to your toilette. However, if you please me, the sleeve will be removed. For example, a satisfactory morning blowjob will result in three hours without the sleeve in a single day. This can enable you to write a letter, paint a picture, or engage in conversation with another female. Enthusiasm during vaginal intercourse could result in a different reward, say the use of the neolttwigi for an hour.”

He saw my confused look and stopped. “Yabu, do you not know what is neolttwigi?” I shook my head.

“Neolttwigi is our traditional Korean see-saw. Yangban women developed it as a way of seeing beyond the walls of their houses. You will never be allowed out of the house save in a closed carriage so, if you want to see something of the beautiful forests that surround this mansion, neolttwigi is your only option as when you jump up high, you can see beyond the wall. It will also help keep you fit, important considering your sedentary lifestyle.”

neolttwigi.jpg

I could see his sadistic enjoyment in delivering this monologue, yet despite this, I was cautiously excited at the prospect of neolttwigi. Even the tiny freedom of being able to glimpse the outside world seemed so precious to me now! Even if it was only the other compounds of the Chongsanri settlement.

“There are other benefits of course; huge ones for anal intercourse and other subversive pleasures, but you don’t need the details now. I shall provide a full list when you are ready. For now though, why not try earning your first reward?”

And as he said those words he moved me close to him and playfully slapped my arse. “And there’s the punishment for the punches,” he said, causing my subconscious desire to heighten once again. When we had finished we lay together exhausted and he called for tea.

Seconds later I had blacked out again.


I awoke on the bed, naked but unrestrained. I moved my hands to my chest, remembering his words and half-guessing what had happened. Sure enough, where my A-cups had once sat, two sizeable and extremely fake mounds were now to be found.

I felt different down below too. I moved my fingers lower and discovered why. My sex was sealed off with a chastity belt, one with attachment rings for clipping my nighttime gloves to. It was made of polished silver and covered me like a pair of underpants. As I shifted my body I felt that it did more than just cover my holes, which had been off-limits for quite some time. Inside two rods now filled me, teasing me, making me ache from being stretched like this.

I got up and went to the mirror. The face that stared back at me was my own but subtly different. Now the nose was more of a button and the lips more like a full rosebud. He had changed me, improved me, created the perfect Korean doll wife.

I stared at that image for a long time, angry and traumatised but unable to resist what had been done to me.

Chapter 7

And so, my married life began. Was it better or worse than life with my father? That is hard to say. It was different.

The biggest thing was the sex. I enjoyed it, I really did. I hated my husband and yet, at the same time, I desired him. Perhaps because this was the only time that I had power and control over my destiny, because with the sex came rewards.

Without the rewards, life was harsh. No use of my hands whatsoever and no voice meant that I was incommunicado, a mere elegant ornament to the household, fit only to be ignored. But if I gave him a blowjob I could indulge in a painting, or if I pleasured him sufficiently during normal sex, I could jump on the neolttwigi with one or two maids on the other end, for a precious moment or two I could soar into the air and glimpse the trees and the beautiful mountain slopes. And if I submitted to the painful ecstasy of anal intercourse then…

I get ahead of myself. First, I need to introduce Jong-Suk. When I saw her on my first day of marriage I hated her. She was my rival, the primary gisaeng that my husband sought pleasure in. She was impossibly beautiful and, when she started to play and sing, impossibly talented. I could never sing now, never again. Oh, how I hated her!

Yet, at the same time, she did not hate me. And in my lonely world, I needed a friend and she was the only one to be had. We would talk with my writing messages for her on paper using an inkbrush and her speaking the replies. And we would sit together and she would hold me and then brush her lips against mine and whisper bedroom secrets of how to bring Yong-Gon to ecstasy.

In short, I fell in love.

And Yong-Gon knew it.

“Yabu, the reward for anal intercourse is Jong-Suk.”

I happily submitted.

And the day after, my bottom hole still throbbing, I was allowed to retire early and she would lie with me. I was restrained, of course, with chastity belt, gloves, and ankles tied, but she was not and she would explore my bare skin with her hands, whilst her tongue explored my mouth and I gasped silently in ecstasy.

And my husband watched on through a peephole, with another gisaeng bringing him to fulfilment with her mouth.

And that was that, save for when, after only a few months, I fell pregnant. Nine months later, my son was born and my husband named him Ju-Hwan. He was the love and light of my life and I treasured holding him and feeding him.

Several months after his birth, I was pregnant again. By this time my husband had acquired two more gisaeng.

And so my life has continued. Restricted and silent, a songless bird in a gilded cage. I have my pleasure – both in the bedroom and in the seven children that have resulted from it – and I have my pain, but it is a life. Like countless generations of Korean women before, I have grown accustomed to it. I no longer even see the doors which would have once brought me pain. It is our tradition, these are our customs. I am Yabu, nothing more. Yes, Yong-Gon?

 

Chapter 8

Thirty years later

And now I shall take over the narrative. In the months running up to her fortieth birthday, I ordered my wife to write down the story of her remarkable life. By that time, her rebellious spirit had been quelled long ago, and she assented to my every wish. And besides, it meant time with her hands free being able to communicate with others. She enjoyed it immensely. I am a just man.

I wanted her to write it all down as an historical record of the start of our movement of national rejuvenation. Well, that was the reason I gave officially. Unofficially, as I told her myself during the first morning of our marriage, I am a sadist with a high libido and tales of female suffering turn me on.

That is why I asked her to do it, but why I ordered her to do it then was for quite a different reason: after her fortieth birthday she would no longer be able to do such things.

Yabu was pretty. I don’t think she ever realised just how pretty she was. As hot as any of the gisaeng I’ve had and, believe me, I’ve had a few. My latest, the delectable little Mi-Kyung is nestled beside me as I type this in fact. But even the prettiest of women fade with the years and the fact that I used her as a breeding machine for the Kyon clan, forcing seven babies out of her, means that she faded faster than most.

And I cannot do with a faded woman.

But traditional Korean society is strict about many things. Most of the rules suit me, but one that doesn’t is that about monogamy: once a man has married, he may not marry again, even if he has disowned her. And Yabii gave me no reason to do that, no reason at all, so we are attached to one another until death do us part.

Thankfully, Chongsanri has an answer for that too, and after Yabu’s fortieth birthday, the age when she is declared past childbearing age, I instituted it.

That evening I slept with her for one last time and then put her to sleep using the same tea draught that I had used when we first wed. This time though, I was doing more than just pump up her tits again.

Once out cold, she was transported to the Chongsanri medical facility in the heart of our little community up here in the mountains and there her transformation began. Her hair was shaved off completely and her head laser treated to stop any future hair growth. Similar treatment was conducted on her brows and lashes. Then the object was produced.

Back on that first hospital visit, over twenty years earlier, as well as pumping up her tits and lips, I’d had a cast done of her virginal young face. That had been saved, entered into the Chongsanri database and then, this year, reproduced as the mask of a hood which was designed to encase her ageing head until the day she died. Carefully it was fitted, an intrusion going into her mouth and a tube down into her stomach to feed her. Tubes also went up her nostrils and then lenses were placed over her eyes with only a pinhole in the centre to allow limited sight. The whole thing was made of a new plastic compound that stays flexible (to a degree) and allows the skin underneath to breathe. Developed by Chongsanri of course. Similar treatment was also meted out to her hands and arms, although the new covers kept the hands rigid. She would never use them again.

She panicked when she awoke three days later but, unable to do anything for herself, and unable to deny my will anymore, though she hadn’t tried in many years, she slowly got over it. Today, as before, she is still dressed in the most sumptuous hanboks, her hair styled in the most elaborate Joseon Era styles, but she is now permanently and completely incommunicado. She barely sees, cannot turn her head or use her hands.

Nor too can she have sex. I had her pleasure nub and inner petals taken away and then had her vaginal opening closed permanently with just a small hole for wastes. On top of this I refitted her chastity belt, this time with nothing to fill her, the key for which is embedded in a prism of glass on my desk at work. The president’s desk, which is back in Seoul. After all, what use does a forty-year old woman have with such things? Now those parts will only be used for their essential tasks, and whatever is communicated to the implant of course.

But although she is forty, she does not look it. Instead, my darling wife, my Yabu, is forever seventeen, the blushing bride who was married to me all those years ago. These days she has no life of her own. Instead she stands or sits in my room as an elegant ornament, a dutiful and submissive accessory to my wealth and status. I often gaze upon her staring mindlessly into space whilst Mi-Kyung or some other gisaeng sucks me off to ecstasy.

There is a lot to be said for tradition, you know.

 

An Artist’s Masterpiece: Book 5

Book 5

April 2051

Book 4

Chapter 1

It was yet another birthday party. Yet another gathering of friends and family. Yet another celebration of a year added to her life. Yet another event for her husband to show her off to the world.

And yet this birthday party, Emily was happy.

Ecstatically so.

For her life had changed in ways that she could never have imagined. Ways in which she never dared hope for. Ways more akin to a fairy tale than real-life.

It had all started, of course, with Humphrey’s death. The operation that he’d undergone to increase his hormonal levels, coupled with his existing high blood pressure and his increasingly debauched lifestyle had resulted in a heart attack whilst on his bed with his wife and sister-in-law. Had he not transformed those two women into helpless doll wives then they might have been able to save him, to alert the medical authorities… anyone. But no, they were completely passive and helpless as he wanted them to be and so they simply stared mindlessly into space as he breathed his final few agonising breaths on earth.

That look of horror and despair was fixed in Emily’s mind forever. It pleased her immensely, just as did the knowledge of where Humphrey Battersby must now be if the Bible is to be believed, and how he must be suffering.

Payback.

They were all discovered the following morning by the automaid. By this time the two sisters had fallen asleep against each other. The automaid notified the police and very soon the house was crowded with medics and lawmen. There was nothing that either could do save for notify the next-of-kin who was, of course, Emily. Humphrey had no living family closer than a second cousin in Bolton. Since Emily was helpless (literally) to do anything, they called Branwell who was most distressed. He relied on Humphrey for money and all he could ask himself was how he would cope from now on. Unless, of course, he could assume guardianship of Emily and Anne. After all, who would be a more natural choice? He was their brother after all, and their closest living relative following the death of their parents the year before.

“Not so fast,” said Humphrey’s solicitor, Mr. Rochester, who had also been called. “The only person who can make that decision is Mrs. Battersby herself.”

“But she is… you know, look at her!” protested Branwell.

“What she looks like,” replied Rochester, who seemed to have taken a dislike to this pushy relative by marriage, “is of no concern of mine. What the law is interested in is what she thinks like and, according to all the modification paperwork that the late Mr. Battersby lodged in my care, at no point was her mental ability ever impaired. Of course, the trauma of such an extreme lifestyle may have taken its toll on her mind but that is for a doctor to ascertain.”

“But…”

“Mr. Lowood, please do not bother me any further!”

That doctor came the following day and, Emily was glad to see, it was not the dreaded Dr. Eaton. He did not come alone, but instead was accompanied by a smartly-dressed gentleman of around thirty who was introduced as a Mr. Robert Rivers of the Damsels in Distress organisation. Both Emily and Anne were sat on the chesterfield across from the two gentlemen and then the medical man begun. “Ladies, my name is Dr. Bradley and I have been called here by Mr. Rochester, the late Mr. Battersby’s solicitor as I am a psychological specialist. It is my job to assess if you have the mental capacity to make decisions about your futures. Now ladies, I believe that you both still have the ability to nod slightly. Nod if you can understand me.”

Both dolls nodded.

“Excellent,” said the doctor, noting something on his form. “Now then, Emily Battersby, can you nod for me.”

The left doll nodded.

“And Anne Lowood.”

The right doll nodded.

“Excellent. It appears you do have mental capacity. Now, the only obvious candidate for your guardianship is your brother, Branwell Lowood. Is that an option you should like me to pursue?”

Neither doll nodded. Anne even shifted her bosom side to side in a desperate attempt to decline.

“Am I to take that to mean that you do not want to be put into the care of your brother?”

Both dolls nodded.

“Hmm, interesting. Well, that can be honoured but it leaves us with a different problem, that being who shall take care of you? Your husband has left you a considerable amount of money Emily, although you have nothing Anne. Do you wish to remain together?”

Both dolls nodded.

“And therefore, would you be prepared to take financial responsibility for Anne, Emily?”

The left doll nodded.

“Right. But you both still need a guardian to administer the estate and keep you safe. But who? Perhaps this is the place to bring my companion, Mr. Rivers into the conversation.”

“Thank you kindly, Doctor,” said the other man. “Ladies, I am a representative of a charitable organisation which is called Damsels in Distress. We are a group of concerned Christians who abhor the practice of turning healthy and happy young women into helpless dolls for the satisfaction of their husband or guardians. We lobby parliament to get the practice banned and we help any doll who has been left without a guardian due to a death, which is why we are here today as both of you fall firmly into that category. We look after these dolls by helping them to regain their former lives by paying for reparative operations. For example, to replace their amputated limbs using new procedures pioneered in the Soviet Union, or restore other functions if possible, such as free eye movement and voice recovery. Be warned, we cannot reverse everything. Faces like yours can never be restored to the original but the mindless doll look can be transplanted in a similar operation to the original so some semblance of humanity can be restored. We are here to help and are prepared to find spouses for both of you from our organisation who will nurture and support you. However, as you wish to stay together, it would be possible to only marry one of you – as bigamy is, of course a crime – but the other could stay as a companion. So, ladies, does this idea sound of interest to you or would you prefer to remain as dolls – some women do. Do you wish to be helped by our charity?”

Both dolls nodded.

“So, Emily, are you therefore prepared to marry me on the condition that I restore you as much as is medically possible to your original condition?”

The left doll nodded.


Emily’s second marriage took place the following day. It was a low-key affair in the church where Robert worshipped, attended only by the vicar, Robert’s sisters, Anne and some representatives of the charity. That night he did not consummate the marriage as, “I want only to enjoy my wife when she can fully consent and participate”. The kindness and thoughtfulness touched Emily to the core, although it did nothing to relieve the frustration that she was now feeling after years of extremely regular sexual activity.

The next day, she and Anne returned to Great Ormond Street and the long, slow, and painful process of reconstruction began. New arms, specially grown in labs across the Channel, were transplanted onto her shoulders which were unfused from their unnatural position. That was a lengthy operation taking many hours but it took months for her to learn how to use them properly. In stages her mammoth breasts were reduced to a more manageable size (although still somewhat bigger than before any operations had ever taken place) whilst similar work was done on her enormous bottom. Her toilet arrangements however were non-reversible, if she disliked incontinence, although with the chance to talk and hold again, Emily didn’t mind.

The biggest and most delicate operation however, was the face transplant and mouth reconstruction. As her husband had explained from the outset, recovering the original Emily and Anne was out of the question and so the girls had to decide how they wanted to look from now on. To be honest, Emily had never particularly liked her plain visage and so wouldn’t have wanted to return to it (although anything was preferable to the vacant doll look that Humphrey gave her) since the old Emily, innocent and unscarred by life, was lost forever too. She looked around for inspiration, something beautiful yet also good and kind. One day Robert showed her a photograph of his late mother when she was but nineteen. Mrs. Rivers Senior had been one of the founders of Damsels in Distress and a fervent campaigner for women’s issues, and straightaway Emily knew. “That is the face I want,” she wrote unsteadily (since her voice was not working at this point) and, touched to the core, Robert assented.

Full jaw movement and throat recovery was beyond their skill, so both girls had to choose from a selection of prosthetic voices. An implant in the speech centre of their brain allowed them to communicate to a specially-made speaker wirelessly, but this was not as easy as it sounded and, like their arms, required months of practice. Their hideous plastic lips were remolded more naturally but their mouths were far from recovery, for the work to reshape them had been extensive. Emily eventually chose her speaker to be added to her still-necessary fleur de bouche, remaking the object from a symbol of silence to one of regained independence and recovery.

When they were implanting the voice processor, the doctors found the mad Dr. Eaton’s trademarked implant, which had been the source of her reflexive oral, vaginal, and anal contractions, as well as her lack of eye motion. What they also found was that it was positioned in an incredibly dangerous place to remove and even if she survived, she may lose sensory functions in those areas during the operation, so for her protection and well-being they desisted. Luckily they rigged the contact switch in her temple to always allow her full sight, never again locked into staring at the wall for months at a time.

Throughout all of this, Anne remained extremely close with her sister, a closeness borne of them sharing the hardest of times and the most degrading of beds. Both sisters had been scarred by their experience but in different ways and Anne’s reaction was to cling to her elder sister. The one thing that Anne had liked about their doll transformation was that they had been made to look nearly identical, only the colours of their neck roses telling them apart, like twins (in actuality there was a year between them). And so, when Emily chose her new face, so too did Anne and a week later when they recovered from the operation and sedatives, both sported the same happy, pure expressions with the same chestnut curls cascading down their backs. At last, at long last they were human again!

And so, on this birthday party to celebrate Emily’s 24th year, she was happy, full of the joy of life and thankful to the wonderful husband who stood by her side.

Chapter 2

It is April 2052. Another year has passed and Emily is celebrating another birthday, her 25th, the years clicking by like miles on a speedometer. Her 24th birthday was one of unbridled joy but her 25th, alas, sees great sorrow enter her – and Anne’s – lives once again.

For only three weeks before, in an horrific motor accident as he returned from a Damsels in Distress conference in London, her second husband was cruelly taken from her. “At least it was quick,” she said to Anne in consolation.

The contrast between Robert’s funeral and Humphrey’s could not have been greater. Humphrey’s consisted of a handful of mourners, most of whom would miss his money more than him. At Robert’s the entire church was full and crowds stood outside. He was loved by the local worshipping community and by feminists and humanitarians across the country and beyond. Emily found herself greeted by huge Black Africans, dusky Indians and diminutive Chinese as well as scores of girls who had formerly been dolls and had been given a new chance at life through the work of Damsels in Distress. In her grief she was comforted by both her own sister and Robert’s two siblings, Diana and Mary. They were heartbroken at the loss of such a loving and Christian brother. Emily compared him to their own brother in her mind and her blood boiled.

The nearly two years that she had spent married to Robert Rivers had been like a glorious, perfect dream. Well, as close to perfect as this life gets. She had had her independence, her voice and her limbs restored to her; she looked nearly a normal woman once again, not some inhuman freak, and she was both listened to and valued. Once she could speak and write once more, Robert supported her in applying for university and she had begun the degree that she had so long dreamt of studying. Anne too was allowed to continue her studies and with the funds that Emily provided her out of Humphrey’s estate, she began her Masters. Cambridge were glad to have her back: during her degree she had been recognised as one of the foremost minds in Physics of the generation and, unbeknownst to the two sisters, when she had been transformed into a doll by Battersby, the furore that followed had even been mentioned in parliament.

Robert had proved a loving and gentle spouse. They had enjoyed beautiful evening walks together around the estate and he would sit with her in the orangery and read poetry or Scripture to her. He welcomed Anne too, immediately insisting that she be retained as Emily’s companion, and treating her as his own sister. He was a breath of fresh air after the debauchery of Humphrey and Emily could have wished for nothing more…

…well, almost nothing.

The only problem was bedtime. Anne was now banished from the marital bed since this was a God-fearing household and that Emily did not complain about, but even when they were alone together, Robert and his beautiful young wife did not regularly engage in sexual activities.

In fact, he only ever did when she pressed the matter and even then it was perfunctory and with reluctance.

And for a woman so used to regular congress and with a body redesigned for sex, this was extremely trying. Even though she cursed Humphrey’s memory from the depths of her soul  late at night (and then repented to God afterwards for such a sin), as Robert lay asleep beside her, she found herself longing for the animal, twisted sex that she had enjoyed with her first spouse. She ardently wished for Robert to flip her over onto her front and spear her still-healthy arse, or use her impressive cleavage as an extra hole, spurting his copious seed all over her face. She knew that these thoughts were sinful, temptations of the devil and yet still they came. In her desperation for release she would use her new hands to work herself to a climax manually in silence as her husband slept (for he would never approve of such things), but it was not the same as when she was taken by a man. Sadly, Emily realised that the effects of her time as a doll would not be erased so easily and that some things would always remain. An increased appetite for sex was one of them. Furthermore, this did not seem to apply to her alone either, for after a few months, Anne – who was getting no sexual release whatsoever when all was said and done – would sidle up to her in the drawing room, or enter her bedroom as she lay down for an afternoon nap and her hands would caress her sister’s womanly parts and their immovable but naturalized lips would meet for a delicious kiss, made all the better by the fact that their tongues had been lengthened once more.

Chapter 3

A month after her husband had died and his funeral had taken place, even whilst she was still in mourning clothes, Emily decided to do something about the problem of her and Anne’s sex drives and deal with another matter that had been burning in her brain ever since she had seen Anne drugged by her husband and brother and carried off for modification. Discretely she obtained the name of a foremost private investigator and then, one Wednesday, she took the train down to London and paid a visit to his office. In that office she handed over a sum of money along with the instructions to find out as much as possible about the whereabouts and daily routine of one Branwell Lowood.

A month later she returned to the capital and the detective went through his file. Branwell was currently living in London, in a rather insalubrious district of the East End. He had failed his degree and, lacking the income that Humphrey Battersby had paid him for handing over his two sisters to dolldom, had moved to London to find work in bars and other legally questionable occupations. He was a heavy drinker and a serious womaniser and had been planning to acquire a doll wife for himself until his patron’s death put the possibility to rest. He liked to frequent the notorious House of the Enhanced Venus, a whorehouse of severely modified women, but these days his funds rarely stretched that far so he instead frequented pubs, trying to pick up easy women since his looks were still charming. His most popular haunt was the Dog & Duck in Soho where he was invariably to be found on a Saturday night.

Emily spent the whole of the next week in London. She rented some rooms in Bloomsbury and made some enquiries with a local apothecary. Then, on Friday, she laced down to sixteen inches, a full two inches smaller than her norm these days, dressed up in her finest gown that emphasised her behind and her cleavage and curled her fake chestnut hair.

Then she took a cab to the Dog & Duck.

It did not take long for her to spot her brother, who was laughing and joking with some regulars by the bar. She seductively swayed up to that bar and ordered a glass of the house red and then retired to a table to drink it. Within five minutes he was asking if he could join her.

“Why, sure you can!” she replied from her voice box between her made-up, pouty lips.

“Are you expecting someone, madam, or are you all alone?”

“Hell no, I’m alone alright.”

“That’s a crime; a woman like you should never be alone!”

“Ain’t you the sweetie, and it’s Blanche by the way, but thanks. No, ever since my husband died last year, I’ve always been alone. That’s why I come out, to find some company but I’m rarely successful…”

“That I can’t believe!”

“No, it’s true! You see the thing is, my late husband – God bless his soul, he were a merry man! – he was an ardent admirer of the modified female and so he was transforming me. He wanted to make me one of them doll wives and, to tell you the truth, I loved it! I’ve had me face done and me voice, and some work on me tits and arse, but we hadn’t got round to the arms and the rest and then… the Lord took him! I was devastated!”

“Madam, surely you are jesting me? Most people these days, particularly women, seem intent on attacking the practice of dollification, not promoting it. There are charities banging their gums about banning it and reversing transformations that have already taken place and here is you saying you WANT to be made a doll!”

“Sure I do, probably the only girl that does, but nothing makes me hornier than being totally helpless and treated as some sort of fucktoy by a domineering man. Probably some strain of hysteria I have. Should see a doctor but…”

“No, no, it’s natural; women are naturally submissive, although the feminists deny this. It isn’t a doctor that you need to see, darling, it is me…”

Ten minutes later they were in a cab back to her rooms.

And in the rooms it was only a matter of minutes before he was removing her gown and running his hands over her rock-hard waist. “Now darling,” she said, as he led her towards the king size bed, “before we do that, I want you to lace me into a monoglove. It’s so long since I’ve been able to wear one and me old Bert never fucked me without it! But before then, let’s have some more wine cos fucking is such thirsty work!”

“I’ll make it, Blanche dear.”

“No, you bloody well won’t! What sort of woman am I to let a man enter the kitchen as I still have these arms! You let me get the drinks whilst you take a look in that cupboard and see what other little toys you might want to use on me…”

Branwell happily plunged into the collection of butt plugs, dildos and restraints that Blanche had pointed out to him, his member rock hard. In a few minutes she returned and handed him his glass of red. He picked up a monstrous pink butt plug and said, “Shall we start with this, Blanche?” and she bent over. As he maneuvered it into her enormous bottom, he took a draught of his wine.

He never finished inserting the plug.

Chapter 4

Even before I opened my eyes I could feel a bright light on my face. Was it morning already? I didn’t really remember fucking good ol’ Blanche, must’ve drunk too much. What a sorry whore, couldn’t even realize her degrading dreams. The women of this country were pitiful. I shuffled a bit, and noticed something off. Restraints! I’m being held down. My eyes flew open to find two silhouettes standing in the light.

A female voice, artificial, Blanche? “…oh yes, Dr. Eaton, I think that’s a great idea, I give you full executive power on this matter.”

“Excellent, excellent. Now dear, I hope we aren’t on bad terms over the work I did on you, this is my trade, like any other. I won’t lie, the money was top notch, but if this relieves my heavy heart I will do it, no questions asked… uhm… with the appropriate compensation.” A silence. “AT COST! AT COST of course dear!”

“Don’t ever call me dear again. You slip up once and the Parliamentary Commission will find your second lab. And watch out, he’s awake.”

With a shuffle from the doctor toward the IV coming out of my arm, I slipped back into the dark.


When I came back to, I felt…different. I saw a bag hanging off my IV stand… “XX CHROM…” Whatever that means. I scanned the room… This was Great Ormond!! Actually it might have been the same room I took Canned Anne’s photographs in. Why am I here? I looked down to find my body still restrained, naked, and my penis in bandages?! What is going on?


When I woke up it was morning, I was still drugged up but the Doctor was there and a mirror was hung above me. My body looked…different. My cheeks looked fuller and my stubble was gone. Actually all my hair was gone from my head, eyebrows, to my pubes. My hips were a little wider? And I had definitely put on weight. There goes all the work I did for the pub girls.

“Whaaaaaa….”, my voice faded off. The Doc noticed me.

“Oh hello, Mr. Lowood,” he talked in a slow, gentle voice, nothing like when me and Humphrey had met with him a few years ago. “You’re going through some changes, and your sponsor has asked that I don’t explain anything outright to you, sorry. I added the mirror so you can keep yourself informed as we proceed to make you into a lovely little companion!”

I obviously couldn’t speak coherently so I just peered through the mirror. There, on my chest, were two slight breasts. What are they doing to me!? It was too much, and combined with the drugs I faded out.


Now I’m really worrying. The Doctor unwrapped my junk and he fucking castrated me! My shaft is still there but I’ll never make a Branwell Jr like I always dreamed. My body looks tired, like I’ve been here a while, and besides, I’ve nearly got the body of a chick! All the muscle and bone is giving away to smooth, plushy curves. I’ve given up on fighting, these people are professionals. I just wish I knew why this had to happen to me. What man did I cross to end up here?


Last time I woke up I couldn’t move my eyes! I just stared at this doll face in the mirror for hours as they marked up our bodies identically with little perma-fountain pens. What am I an art project? The face has this dumb stare right at me, with a Mouth and nose just like my sisters after Humphrey did his number on them. I miss him, when he died my life went to shite.

I did get worried when I tried to ask and I couldn’t make a peep. Seem to have a weird thing in my mouth. I started shaking about and the Doctor put me back under, just as I realized the doll was shaking too. Noooo…


THIS IS NOT FUCKING OKAY. I woke up to my body, no, not MY body. I still can’t look around but even from my peripheral sight its unmistakable, my arms and legs are just GONE. There’s no scars or bandages, how did they do that?! I tried to shuffle my limbs but I just saw my body twitch a bit. Actually, what’s wrong? I’m not tied down anymore, why can’t I move anything? I should be able to do crunches or something! Whenever I flex or try to move I see the muscle distend like it’s trying, but I just can’t!


Doctor said it has been 6 months now since the “Sponsor” brought me in. It’s taking so long because of the gender reassignment. I’ve got big tits and my butt is like two big smooth eggs that frame my cock and twat. That’s right, they gave me womanly lips, well, besides the ones on my actual lips. Doctor said I’ve been good so he explained my transition. I think he is just bored. Maybe he gets off on this, I would.

My skeleton is chemically fused, all of it. I’ll never walk, twist, move again, but I have to always exercise or I’ll get weak and my Sponsor will throw me away. Sometimes they put electrical pads on my smooth skin and my muscles work out whether I want to or not. The Doctor always insinuates that the Sponsor is some uptight lady. He complained that he wanted to remove some ribs and lace me up and she apparently said, “You wouldn’t put stays on a Pillow.”

I’ve got some more meat on me than my athletic body before, but I’m not fat by any means…well, if you ignore my breasts and ass; they get larger everyday. All I can do is lay here and stare at the ceiling, my cock sticking straight in the air. Oh yeah they did something to that, I can’t get soft, probably just enough to shove it in some trousers and hide it, but it would still be screamin’ proud if so. I wonder if I’ll ever wear trousers again.


They have me upright now. I can’t move so my balance on my arse is lousy. Right now they have me surrounded by pillows to support my body. When I sit up I’m right on my new twat, and I noticed I can feel a growing wet patch, actually I have this itch I just can’t scratch down there.

Am I a woman now? A doll? Is this what Canned Anne or Plain Jane felt like? Fuck them, I want out! What kind of pervert would do this to a man?! We own this country!


The Doctor put his cock in my mouth and I sucked him off yesterday, I didn’t mean to I swear! It’s like my mouth had a mind of its own! I constantly drool this sweet, musky saliva, kinda like what a twat smells like. Only queers go down on anybody so I wouldn’t know, but that’s my closest guess. Afterwards the Doctor stroked my pussy and cock really hard and I couldn’t bring myself to completion. I didn’t expect a spurt of semen since the operation, just a little release! Anything! I feel it all but I can’t cum!


Today is the day. Months of imprisonment, and now my prison is this body. I can’t do anything: move, talk, look around, stop blinking, eat, urinate, defecate, anything. My holes contract on their own so even a morse code SOS of vaginal clenches is impossible… dumb idea anyways… If I really concentrate I can flex some of this extra flesh I have on my arse, but it’s unreliable. I’ve been inactive for too long.

I wear not stays but a gigantic bra which holds me together but bites into my sensitive tits. I’m fitted in a fine silk dress that is sewn underneath and accentuates these gigantic breasts and ass. My empty shoulders and hips end in little tassels. They’ve glued a chestnut wig on my head, and the messy curls surround my female doll face. They tucked and taped my cock to my stomach before dressing, I think its larger now. My waist isn’t like my sisters’, but my assets are surely bigger. When they sit me up my ass spreads out a bit and stabilizes me so I rarely fall, but it’s all still so scary. Right now I’m sitting on the vibes they put in me on high. This is so cruel, I was made for this, why can’t I cum?!

Blanche comes to pick me up, and in her arms I find myself close to her, bodies pressed up against each other so I don’t fall before I go in the wheelchair… Is that a red rose in her neck?

Chapter 5

Sept 2053

“So who is she, Emmie?”

“Her name is Pillows. Damsels in Distress rescued her and they’ve asked us to look after her as she doesn’t want to remarry.”

Both sisters looked down at the doll girl sitting passively on the sofa.

“Hello, um, Pillows. I’m Anne.”

“She can’t respond. You know how it is.”

“I remember how it was for us, but we could still nod.”

“Pillows cannot even do that I am afraid. Her modifications were much more severe than ours.”

“When are we going to get them reversed?”

“I’m afraid we’re not, Annie. She’s already been to the hospital. The operations that she’s had done were much more intrusive than ours. Try to transplant her face and regrow her limbs and she could be put in mortal danger. Her heart is also weaker now, it’s used to the reduced body mass; she wouldn’t survive.”

“What about her breasts? They’re even bigger than mine used to be. Surely we could help her there?”

“No, not even there. They’re a new type of implant apparently, that works its way deep into the muscle tissues. Try to remove them and she dies.”

“That’s awful! What kind of wretch would do something like that to a girl?!”

“You of all people should know the answer to that.”

“What, you mean people like our brother Branwell?”

“Yes, exactly. Or to be entirely precise, drop the word ‘like.”

“What?! You mean that Branwell is…”

“Was, my darling, was. He used Humphrey’s money to transform this poor orphan girl into his own pillow doll. But now he is gone; he died in an accident last month. That is why Damsels in Distress asked us to take care of her. And that means you, Anne. I need you to care for and comfort Pillows here as if she were your favourite doll Jemima that you had as a child.”

“I cannot believe that you remember Jemima!”

“How could I forget? You were so good to that doll. She deserves a caretaker like you.”

Emily and Anne embraced as they looked at the tiny doll girl. Anne began, “Oh dear, this poor girl..and how utterly unoriginal of Branwell to name her that! Surely styled after those unfortunate Hodgkinson women we visited together.”

“Well you remember how he was. He hung onto Humphrey’s tailcoat more than aspiring to anything unique. You know… Jemima isn’t a bad name, all in all.”

“Oh what a good idea, Emmie!” Anne knelt down to look in the girl’s blank eyes. “This is a house of recovery and hope, and you’re going to be my little, sweet Jemima! I will keep you safe.”

“Anyway, let’s get the automaid to take a photo of us three, the new Lowood siblings! Welcome to the family, Jemima!”


I never asked for this. I set those girls up with a future, not like what that two-face bitch Emily did to me in return. She was a Lady of Leisure, with not a care in the world. It was a win-win! But now I’m nothing more than a doll for two paltry second-class widows. They both have a dislike for automaids, so Anne takes care of my few needs when she is not away at the college nearby. From my guess we live in Oxford, but I haven’t left the premises of our comfortably-sized home for months.

My life is not altogether awful, for Emily’s secret sadism is balanced by Anne’s pure innocence and her ignorance of my true identity. In truth, I would not tell her if I could, for she looks at me now unlike she ever did before, her victimized Jemima. I was always a disappointment to her before, and after I realized trying to communicate was impossible, I reveled in the clean slate of our companionship. Anne would hold me and tell me stories of her time with Humphrey all the way to her studies now. Most of them were over-dramatic and a waste of breath, but I am sorely starved for company. Late at night, when I’m not sleeping in my crib, she holds me tight in her bed as a body pillow, crying a bit or comforting her mute Jemima doll. She was mortified to see my erect penis underneath the dress I wore on the first day, and Emily told her all these lies about how I secretly had it added to this imaginary orphan girl because of my “other tastes”. I wanted to hurt her so much that day, and ever since, Anne has treated the last evidence of my manhood as an ornament of shame. Only a week ago did she apologize to me repeatedly, lay me down on a bed, strip her underwear, and wrap her silicone wetness around me until she came. She cried after, about how she couldn’t help herself since what those sick men did to her. I didn’t know what to say, luckily I couldn’t. I wish I had reached climax too, maybe she could try harder.

This is, sadly, not the only time I am used this way. One reason I like Anne’s presence so much is what it prevents. When she is off completing her Phd or whatever, I am at Emily’s mercy. She still holds me accountable, even after all she has done to me, and if I were to guess, once she is home and away from reclaiming her independent life, her primary goal past taking care of Anne is making my existence as horrid as possible. Cayenne pepper goes in my mush. She leaves me sitting on that horrid toilet as I am impaled, filled, and drained over and over. I am left in corners of the household, forgotten. The only physical contact I receive from her happens when she is about to take me to her room. Each time, I receive a diatribe about how this situation was brought on by myself. If I hadn’t sold her to Mr. Battersby for his “artistic vision”, she wouldn’t have the ravenous cravings she does now, and would not need a surrogate in place of him. Each time she lists off decisions I have made that were harmful to others, she strikes me with a crop on my taut orbs above and below. Not enough to make a mark, but enough to have my black rose wheezing under the pain. My face blankly asks for more as I feel it all.

Earlier today she brought me to her room, pinched my nipples with sharp alligator clips, and used my erupting phallus as her personal dildo. This is the horror and highlight of my life, for every time she rapes me I hope, I really hope, I can have a little reward now that I’m being so good for them, but it never comes. Emily always climbs off, spent and satisfied, while I stare at the ceiling yearning for release. I never did this to them! I always held myself back from this dirtiest of sin! And sometimes she toys with me, treats my womanly body well for a day to put me on edge, then just sits on my face for hours as she reads her books. Later she will tell me my tongue was unshortened for this exact reason, and she calls me her “Masterpiece.” As always, I am cleaned up and made presentable by the time Anne returns from her seminars.

And now, as I lean against the back of a firm chair in the small Oxford drawing room, faintly hearing the girls chat in the parlor, I stare at the wall. I’m placed just right so my eyes focus on the frames; degrees, accolades, mementos, and to the side are three photographs: photos I look at every day. The first shows three siblings, close in age, as children; the second shows the eldest brother holding two vaguely-familiar, helpless, blonde dolls by their tiny waists; and the third shows two joyous twins holding up a grotesque pillow doll who looks straight at the camera. Silently. Forever.

FIN

Leyla’s Plight

Leyla’s Plight

N.B. This story is not really mine, but more one that I adapted some years ago. The original was called ‘What I Had Always Wanted’ by Mark. Basically, I rewrote it from a standard US setting to a Saudi one with veils, with the initial idea of posting it on Tales of the Veils before deciding it perhaps wasn’t best suited there. Not my best work, it nonetheless deserves to be made public for those who like TG stories.

Dave

Chapter 1         

Ever since I can remember I have been fascinated by women’s clothing. Well, at least, the clothes that you can see which here in Saudi Arabia is not very much, only the outer layer, all-encompassing black abayahs, black headscarves and black face-veils. Probably it’s because I am a man and straight that when I see those mysterious veiled figures walking up and down the streets that I feel excited by them and want more, and since I can only see the veils, then it is the veils that capture my imagination. Yes, it’s because I’m straight that I did what I did that day, not because I’m gay. In my mind gays are evil, against the Law of Allah and should be stoned. I have never been gay, which in some ways makes it all harder.

That day I was alone in the house. My father had gone out and my mother and three sisters, (two older, one younger), had gone to the shopping mall. When I was sure that I would be alone for a long time, I went into the room of Saffira, my eldest and most elegant sister, and started getting out her clothes. Of course I didn’t want anyone to catch me; my sisters would never stop making fun of me and dad would have a fit, but I knew that they’d be away for hours and if they found any clothes out of place I could blame it all on Naima, my youngest sister, who I blamed for everything and she would get the beating.

So, I went into her walk-in wardrobe and picked out a beautiful embroidered abayah which I fitted over my head. Then came a pair of finely-tailored opera gloves in black satin and high-heeled shoes for my feet. Then a headscarf and finally a veil, fitted over my face and tied at the back. My family aren’t strict but sometimes occasion demands extra modesty and this was my sister’s most serious veil with three layers that could be flipped down inidividually. The first was thick but left the eyes free, the second thinner but covered the eyes in a fine gauze and the third thick and almost blinding. Walking around with just the first down was strange; my breath warmed my face up quickly. Then I flipped down the second. It was weird, everything seen in a haze. Then, excited, I flipped down the third. I could only make out the dimmest of outlines and felt enclosed, covered and controlled. I also felt alone in my cocoon and sat down on a chair to daydream about how it must be to wear such clothing every time you leave the house as some religious girls do. Unfortunately, I was so lost in my reveries that I only heard the key turning in the lock when it was too late.

I later learnt that they had come back early because mum had forgotten her credit card.


Chapter 2

When mum opened the door all she saw was a strange woman sat on her sofa. She said hello and I froze. I have never been so terrified in my life. Then she figured out who it really was and went crazy. My sisters had joined her by this time and their reaction was a mixture of anger and laughter. I was just humiliated. Mum said I was disgusting and continued pleading to Allah as to why He had sent her a son who was gay and wanted to be a girl. I tried to tell her that I wasn’t gay and I had just always wondered what it felt like to be veiled. She wouldn’t listen though and told me that I was really in trouble and that my dad would kill me. Immediately I realised dad would be back home soon and I begged my mother to allow me to change back into my male clothes but she refused saying that he should see me in all my shame. I had to sit in the kitchen in dread for three hours and wait for my father, all the while begging her to let me change.

Finally my father arrived. He flipped out too. He gave me ten strikes with the cane and made me promise never ever to wear girls’ clothes again. My mother wasn’t satisfied though. She said that she didn’t believe my promise and she suspected that I would merely go back to  what she called my ‘habit’ but would just be more careful. She had a different punishment in mind. Since I loved dressing up like a girl so much, she would see to it that I got a chance to dress up often. In fact, she said, I would dress up so often that I would become sick of it and would never want to touch women’s clothing again. My father was reluctant, but eventually agreed that a drastic solution was required.

Mortified, I listened as my sentence was passed. I was to dress up like a girl all the time for three months. I nearly fainted. My sisters all thought it was hilarious. Naima said that it was Allah’s judgement after all the times I had had her punished for deeds that weren’t hers. Dad said that to save shame and embarrassment, he would tell everybody that Abdul had left to stay with an uncle and that our cousin from Asir Province was staying with us in return. From now on the family would refer to me as Leyla instead of Abdul.

Saffira laughed at this. She said that since I was supposed to be from Asir Province which is very conservative and since I had voluntarily chosen her most severe outfit, then it was obviously my wish to be dressed as an extremely pious musilmah for the next three months. All my sisters and my mother agreed with this and said that the life of pious Leyla would start the next day.

The next day I woke up. Saffira showed me how to shave all the hair off my body including that around my genitals which was most humiliating. Then she and Saeeda, my middle sister, placed a steel sheathe over my penis. Pushing my testicles back into my body she pulled the two chains through my legs, pulling my penis securely between my legs. She then pulled the chains through my arse crack and around my waist, closing them with a small lock. I would now have to sit in order to urinate. There would be no more telling bulge in front of my panties. Instead it looked like all I had was a girl’s empty cavity. Worse of all, I would not be able to have an erection. In fact, having an erection would be painful. They locked this chastity belt and gave the key to mum. When I protested they said that wearing a chastity belt fitted in with my religious image as I would be around non-mahram men here in Riyadh. Mum also said it would help me to become more feminine as I would have to sit down to pee. They then dressed me in panties, a bra, pantyhose, an undershirt, an abayah, headscarf and veil. When I protested that veils were only for outdoors they said that women in Asir Province wear them indoors as well. Even dressed in all that though, they weren’t happy. They said that my eyebrows looked too male so Naima sat me down and plucked them into two rounded arches. She then showed me how to do my makeup and fix my hair.

I was horrified when my mother told me that we were going to the mall. Desperately I begged her not to humiliate me publicly. I only liked dressing up privately. I didn’t hurt anyone, why was I being punished? My father explained that I was doing something unnatural and that this would show me my place. He watched sternly as my mother and sisters helplessly dragged me to the car. My mother explained that since I would be completely covered, I would not be embarrassed. People would just think I was a regular teenage girl. Which is what I had wanted anyhow, she told me.

We went of to the mall. First we went to buy clothes for me. My mother bought a whole new wardrobe for me. I could have died as we walked into all these women’s clothing stores and mom and Saffira told the pretty sales girls ALL about me, my punishment and why I was being punished. They all laughed at me and were very enthusiastic about dressing me up.

Then we went to a hair salon and got extensions put in my hair so that I now had a wavy ebony mane that reached to my middle back. Great, how would I explain that to the guys at school when I was allowed to become Abdul again? Then we got my ears pierced. The process didn’t last long but it did sting. Soon I had three studs in each ear. That was another thing I would have to explain at school.

Finally we went to eat. It was really difficult trying to eat as a girl, pushing my food under a veil so as not to reveal any skin. Many women seemed to easily see through my disguise and I drew many stares. I also drew many stares of a different nature from the men. I hated those.

When we got home my mother and sisters spent hours making me practice walking and talking as a girl. As I angrily complained they asked me if when I went out in public, which would be often, I would like everyone to know my real gender. That made me shut up as I quickly became more adept at acting feminine. When they were done I went down to where dad was. He made me strut around for him. He sneeringly remarked that I was really hot and would make a good lay. It was obvious that he no longer respected me anymore. I also found that dad had locked away all my boy’s clothes. I would only get those for school. My closets were now filled with dresses, skirts and lingerie while I had several pairs of heels. In desperation I cried out, “Allah, please let these three months pass quickly!” At this my sisters sniggered and mum said that it might be more than three months. I didn’t understand what she meant and asked her to explain.

She answered me. “You’re manhood is now on trial. When you prove to me that you are really a man then I’ll believe that you have overcome your perverted habit. If you do not prove your manhood then something else will be done. We’re doing this for your own good. We will not allow you to be a perverted faggot and freak for the rest of your life. You are either a man or a woman. Now we’ll find out which one you are.” She did not say anything more. So began my new life.


Chapter 3

My life changed completely. There was no more school and instead I had to stay at home and help with the chores. My sisters would often have me run errands or take me out in public. It was absolutely humiliating. Especially when old neighbours and acquaintances recognised me. At home all the housework was given to me. I virtually became a maid. My social life died, as I no longer would hang out with my friends. Worse though was the death of my sex life. That was really frustrating. As I said before, I’m not gay and I love girls. I’ve met with quite a few and I have the usual sex drive of a healthy teenage male. Strangely wearing those clothes excited me even more and treated as a woman, I got to see lots of my sister’s hot friends unveiled, but wearing that chastity belt I couldn’t even masturbate. It drove me nuts.

My mother and sisters taught how to raise my voice by one octave and to speak with a girlish lisp. Whenever I was at home I had to talk like a girl. However, they all agreed that my speech as a female was not entirely convincing and so to save embarrassment and to fit in with my new religious image, I would have to wear a gag whenever I left the house. Saffira and Saeeda took me to the mall again and selected a really large inflatable one that hurt my mouth when it was in and inflated but certainly blocked out any sound.

Now I no longer went out. Except when my sisters took me to their friends’ houses where I was humiliated by girls my own age or to shopping malls. Always I was gagged and veiled and after a couple of weeks they started putting handcuffs and shackles on me saying that religious girls sometimes wore them to give them shorter steps and to protect their modesty. I was like a toy that my sisters wheeled out to play with for their own pleasure. After all the years I bullied them and blamed them for things I suppose they were getting their revenge. I didn’t realise until then how much all the women in the house actually hated the spoilt only son. But by then it was too late to change it.

Another thing I found is that women’s clothing is very uncomfortable. It was one thing to wear them now and again around the house, it’s another story to dress up for a long time. High heels made my feet ache. The pantyhose itched and they were too hot. The bra really irritated my chest and I could never get used to the falsies that I had to wear so that it looked like I had breasts. Worst though were the veils. I had to get used to walking outside half-blinded, all the time black material sticking to my nose as I overheated inside my female attire.

Changes around the house continued. Slowly my room was redecorated. My old blue bedspread and drapes were removed. So were my posters of athletes and half-naked models. In their place came pink sheets and drapes. I got new pink wallpaper. Posters of ballerinas and cats were put up on my wall. So was a poster of a famous male singer, a gift from Saeeda. Thanks a lot sis! Female vocalists and male pop groups that all the girls gushed over replaced my alternative and hard rock CD’s. I was getting everything a normal teenage girl could ever want. Except that I was not a normal teenage girl. Photographs of “Abdul” were removed and replaced by photographs of “Leyla.”

After a few months everyone got used to having me around dressed like a girl. Indeed, if you had not known me from before you would think that I was a perfectly natural female. My dad, who had snubbed me for a month, soon seemed to warm to his new daughter. He always called me Leyla and treated me as if I had always been a girl. Mum in the meantime was a harsh taskmaster who made sure I stayed in character.

Then my birthday came. All I got as a present was more girl’s clothes, jewellery and lingerie, which was annoying. I figured that at least when this punishment was over I’d have lots of presents to give my future girlfriends.

As another month passed I began to hear rumours through Saeeda that mum and dad were beginning to think that it was time to see if I deserved a reprieve. This made me happy.

On the last day of the month I was called into the living room for a family meeting. As usual, I was dressed like a girl. On the table were a bottle of glue and a box of tampons

“Leyla,” began my mother, “this is a family meeting to decide your future concerning this punishment. We must decide for your own good whether you will now go back to being a man or whether we will move on to the punishment’s second stage. You will have no say in this. I don’t believe that you are in a position to judge clearly. After all, you’ll probably be concerned with all sorts of trivial nonsensical things like what your friends will think. That can be taken care of. For your own good we must decided whether you are really male or female deep down inside. Trust me, you don’t want the real you stuck in a closet until it emerges under tragic circumstances. If changes must be made, they should be made while you are still young, before you get married and have a family. We as impartial observers will judge.” Normally I would have bellowed I should decide for myself but I was by now used to demurely doing what I was told. And besides, Saffira had made sure that I was firmly gagged at the time.

My father spoke first. “I think we should end this punishment. I don’t think Abdul will ever want to touch women’s clothing again. He has constantly shown that he does not enjoy wearing women’s clothes and finds them uncomfortable. He’s definitely a man.”

Mum did not agree. “Look how well those clothes fit. How he talks and walks like a girl. These feminine tendencies of his are very deep. Look how he now sits quietly while we decide his fate. If he were really a man he would be yelling his head off. Outside no one can distinguish him from a woman. He’s very attractive and draws the attention of all the men. Abdul is obviously meant to be a young attractive young lady whether he wants to admit it or not. Whatever he may say because of society’s influence. This is obvious to any impartial person who can observe him now. Why, during the past few months he has even stopped complaining about dressing like that. He may as well have been dressing like this all his life, which he actually has been doing in secret before I caught him. Acting like a girl is second nature to him. He needs more time as a girl so that we can see better.”

My father argued back. “He is so good at acting like a girl because he has been dressing like one for eight months and for quite some time in secret. He hasn’t been complaining because he has gotten used to it and now sees that whining won’t get him anywhere.”

“You’ve just proven my point. You admit that he has been dressing up like a girl for a long time. And you’ve noted how he has gotten used to acting like a girl. Tell me, would any real man get used to dressing like a girl ever? You just say he’s a boy because admitting he’s a girl makes you insecure about your masculinity.”

Deadlock. My parents turned to my sisters. They were obviously just there to give advice and contribute their opinions. Normally nothing they would say would decide anything; this was my parent’s decision. But now that they were at an impasse they asked Saffira, Saeeda and Naima what they thought. I was overjoyed. They would surely tell mum that I should go back to being a boy. Instead they got me back for all the years when I made their lives hell.

Saffira, being the eldest, spoke first: “I agree with mum. Not only that, but Abdul has told me in confidence that he will continue dressing like a girl in private and that he is happy that this punishment gave him so much experience.” Then Saeeda and Naima added, “Not only that, he told us that he likes the attention he gets from men and will remember to experiment with them in the future.” That decided it. Dad looked disappointed. He got up and left the room. Mum ordered me to strip. I told her emphatically that they were lying but she didn’t believe me.

Once all my clothes were off Saffira took some glue and stuck my falsies to my chest. Mum said that she had the solution that would negate the glue and that she would only apply it when she thought I could be a man again. My falsies would only be taken off for a short period of time so I could wash my chest or when I no longer needed them.

As a final step my mother picked up the box of tampons. She announced that from this time on this week of the month would be my period. During the week of my so-called period I was expected to put a tampon up my arse! I looked at her in shock. “Why Leyla,” she cut in, “being a girl isn’t all fun and games. You have to experience the hardships of being a girl too.” She then asked me to bend over while she ceremoniously shoved my first tampon up my arsehole. Talk about uncomfortable and humiliating.

After that awful evening things went from bad to worse. My mother got a prescription for female hormones and would only give me food to eat if I took one of the pink estrogen pills. My skin began to get soft. I began to get thinner everywhere except for my hips which began to swell. Worse yet, when I got my falsies taken off so I could wash my chest, I noticed that I had begun to grow breasts. My mother religiously measured my chest to check my progress.

I was still trying to convince mum that I was not meant to be a girl. I pointed out that I liked girls, not boys. My mother retorted that I would never know whether I liked boys or not because I had never had any sexual experience with boys. This gave Saffira an idea. She and Saeeda took me to a place where boys and girls meet secretly away from the eyes of the religious police. When I was Abdul I’d gone there quite a few times to meet girls. Having a sexual relationship outside of marriage is illegal here in Saudi but that doesn’t mean to say that it can’t be done. I used to love going there, seeing a beautiful pair of female eyes peeping out from behind some veils, and then taking her back to the car for a little illegal fun. This time though, I wasn’t looking forward to it at all. This time it was me who was veiled and it was the boys who wanted me now, not the girls.

Saffira found me a boyfriend and we went to his car. He was skinny and not a good-looking man at all. He was really horny though and jumped at the opportunity to go out with the attractive hot young teen he thought I was. He was a real prick. During the first three dates it was all I could do to keep him from ripping off my clothes and discovering that I was really a boy. This was crazy, my family could not making me act like a homosexual.

At fist I started making plans to run away and go to the police to complain about child abuse. But then I realised that this would mean total public humiliation for myself and my family, so I decided that it would be better to bide my time. Goodness only knew what people would think if they found out I had been forced to live like a girl for five months. Not to mention what they would think when they found out that I had originally enjoyed putting on girl’s clothing. I could afford to bide my time. Nothing that had been done to me up until now was permanent, right?

I still felt sure that my family would eventually come to its senses and this madness would stop without total embarrassment. Eventually dad would make mum stop. Or eventually my sisters would stop being angry at me and would tell my parents that they had lied when they had said I would continue acting girlishly once the punishment was over. As for my mum, I knew that she had decided that I must really be a girl at heart. My mother was quite strict about sex roles, even more than my father. I always felt that she did not know how to relate to me as her son. Now she got to relate to me as her daughter and got to dress me up however she wanted. I got to be every mother’s dream, a daughter who acted like her mother’s personal barbie doll. She would curl my hair, help me put on make-up and buy me earrings. Everyday in the morning my face was plastered with foundation, my eyebrows trimmed and thick pink lip gloss put on my lips which made them look like they were pouting for a man.

When I complained to Saffira that I could not hold off Hussain’s (my boyfriend) advances anymore, she told me to suck his cock. That way I could satisfy him without removing my clothes. I was a girl now so it was something I was supposed to love. I felt disgusted. But one night as I was alone with Hussain in his car he went berserk He lifted up my skirt and was ready to rip off my panties and panty hose. He was virtually threatening to rape me. Desperately I went down on my knees and opened his zipper. Taking his cock out, I kissed it and took it into my mouth. Using my tongue and pink glossy lips I made him hard. As his dick grew I nearly gagged. I felt like throwing up as it was. Finally he came in my mouth and I had to swallow his salty white cum. I felt like throwing up.

From then on Saffira made sure that I satisfied Hussain adequately. According to him, I was an amazing cocksucker. Saffira asked me for my method, although she told me that she hated oral sex but thought it was worth while to know anyway. She thought oral sex and cock sucking was kind of kinky. It was something kinky girls like me, her depraved cousin, did.

While Hussain was having a grand time I was getting more and more frustrated. I could not have an erection, let alone cum. Just looking at a girl caused my penis to strain against the sheathe, causing me excruciating pain. It drove me nuts that a wimp like Hussain was being granted continuous sexual gratification while someone like me couldn’t even bear to look at a woman anymore because this would cause my penis to begin swelling. I had to train myself to stop thinking about hot women and to stop staring at hot women, which was probably exactly what mum wanted. All my pathetic attempts to break the sheath’s lock failed.

In the meantime I was being forced to play the role of a girl with Hussain it was becoming too much to bear. The hormone pills were making my body more and more girlish. My mother monitored how much I was eating and forced me to eat only small amounts of food in order to ” keep my figure. ” This made me hungry all the time. On top of all this I was still expected to do the cooking and housework.

All my pleading for this process to stop fell on deaf ears. I told mum angrily that a psychologist, not her, should decide whether I was male or female. To my surprise, she agreed and told me that she had already contacted some doctors who would deal with my case. I was happy, now they would explain that I had only been going through a stage and that my habit was a small thing. They would make mum treat me like a boy. Mum and my sisters though, had other things in mind.

Mum had indeed contacted some doctors. She had called Dr. Tariq Abbas, a Pakistani plastic surgeon just out of med-school who wanted to open his own private practice and greatly appreciated ANY job he could find. He also appreciated the large amount of money my parents, who were not poor at all, threw at him. She had also called Dr. Mohammed Atta, a veteran psychologist who was extremely fascinated with my case. He was a sexologist who eagerly wanted to examine a case of a boy being turned into a girl. How this would affect him/her. He was also quite impressed with the money my parents gave him.

So it was that one day I was taken to the hospital for a check up. I was rather nervous when the doctor, Dr. Abbas, checked my identification. My I.D. listed me as male, but Dr..Abbas didn’t seem to mind. He injected me with what she told me was a vaccine. It was really anaesthetic. As I began to get drowsy and dose off, the last thing I remember seeing was a blurry picture of Dr. Abbas looking down at me with sympathy and muttering to himself, “It’s amazing in the end what I’ll do for money.”

When I woke up some time later, something felt different. My chest. I had breasts! Dr. Abbas had given me implants. They weren’t obscenely big but they were large enough to make most girls of my age envious. I was stunned. This could not be happening. I wanted to make a scene, I should have made a scene, but I was too stunned. My mother took me home. I merely sat in the car quietly, staring out the window. How could they do this to me? This was no longer some sort of joke. This was real. I suddenly realised that maybe my optimism had been misguided. Maybe dad had come to terms with my alleged girlishness. I noticed that ever since that day when my sisters had convinced mum and dad to make me continue living as a girl he had not been acting the same way towards me. He was more gentle, condescending even. My sisters were still pissed off at me. I began to feel trapped. In the meantime my mother explained that she had been told that hormones would at most make me a B-cup so she decided to go for implants to make my breasts bigger. All the while I felt the new sensation of having breasts, this was all too strange.

When we got home I ran to my room and stayed there. I only came out to fix dinner and then left without eating anything. Not that mum let me eat much anyway. This was permanent. This showed me that this was no longer some messed up punishment meant to exhaust any girlish tendencies. My parent’s believed that I wanted to be a girl deep down inside. What made things worse was that everyone acted as though nothing was wrong. As if it was perfectly normal for me to have breasts.

The next day I was alone with dad. He asked me if everything was okay and how the breasts felt. I told him that I didn’t want to have breasts. I demanded to be taken to a psychologist. My dad agreed and I was taken to Dr. Atta.

Hussain, of course, was thrilled with the change. Up until now. I had only let him touch my breasts through my shirt. If they were under my shirt, my falsies could pass for real breasts. Now of course, I didn’t need falsies to fill my bra since I had breasts. This meant I could go topless in front of Hussain and let him play with my breasts all he wanted. That was the one advantage about getting implants. It really did feel good when someone played with them. If they hadn’t been associated with so much humiliation, I may have actually enjoyed them.

I continued meeting with Dr. Atta. I told him that I did not want to become a girl. That I only had a tiny curiosity about girl’s clothing. That I was totally heterosexual and utterly loved my penis and wanted without any doubt to be a man. Dr. Atta was very polite and listened to me. Then he went to write his report. He said that I had a deep subliminal desire to be a woman. That I would be happier in the long run as a woman. That the only reason why I claimed to want to be a man was because I was afraid of what my friends might think. That despite my verbal claims that I wanted to be a man, my actions clearly indicated that I was a woman deep down inside. I fit perfectly into the feminine role. I totally looked, talked and walked like a girl. He said I was enjoying a healthy relationship with Hussain and that I excelled as the girl in a relationship, making a subtle reference to my cock sucking abilities. Finally, he wrote that I was overjoyed to have breasts and that I loved playing with them. This was followed up by mum’s testimony. She had caught me playing with my breasts on more than one occasion. I mean, what else did they expect me to do with my dick tied up as it was, a guy had to find relief somehow.

Of course Naima, who never seemed to mature and didn’t seem to understand that this was my life she was playing with, remembered to throw in enough imaginary stories about me telling her how desperately I wanted to be a girl and how I was totally crazy about Hussain. She was still pissed off about all the tales I’d told about her when I was Abdul so she was getting me back. My parents of course believed everything she said and this seemed to strengthen my mother’s resolve to feminise me and my father no longer tried to restrain her.

So it was that my family with the help of Dr. Atta and some more money thrown in on the side got my birth certificate changed. I was no longer listed as a boy named Abdul but as a girl named Leyla. All my ID was changed. I was not informed of this and I would only find out at the end of the summer.

When they did tell me though, I just looked down at my now heaving breasts and cried. My dad told me not to worry and to be brave, they had taken care of everything and soon my ordeal would be over and he felt sure that I would be much happier. I hugged my dad. Ever since I had got my breasts he was always being very nice to me. Just that he kept treating me as if I was his daughter, “daddy’s little girl.” I just would have preferred to play football with him or any of the other things fathers normally did with their sons. No matter how many times I asked him if he wanted to kick a football around with me or even wrestle like we used to, he’d politely and quietly refuse. He just wasn’t interested in doing those things with me anymore; they weren’t fitting activities for a growing girl to engage in. And when he said ‘growing’ he’d point at my chest which only emphasised my situation.


Chapter 4

I realised that if I wanted to put a stop to all this, it would not be done through the police, it would have to be done through my psychotherapist, Dr. Atta. As of yet I still hadn’t realised that Dr. Atta was actually supporting my continued feminisation. I thought he was just being misled by my mother and my sisters. He actually was ecstatic about reviewing my case and was eagerly keeping track of my physical, mental and societal changes. Later on he would write an excellent scientific report on my case that would earn him quite a bit of recognition. However, I just decided that next time I saw him I would have to demand an outright cessation of what my family was calling my reassignment.

Others were hostile and some, particularly Naima’s friends, were downright violent. When I was taken to their houses for coffee, I was kept gagged and restrained whilst they enjoyed pinching my breasts and feeling the implants. All I could do was try to ignore their taunting or curl up into a ball when they might try to hit me.

Many more people such as mum’s friends who I had known since childhood were just plain curious. These were also annoying. They asked all these embarrassing questions about why I wanted to be a girl and how it felt to have breasts and hips and so on. This obsession with my budding girlishness bugged me. I just wanted things to be as they always had been. I might look like a girl but I was still the same Abdul, right?

My mum made me drop all my studies and instead said I must concentrate on feminine pursuits. I was also enrolled in a belly-dancing class and I soon became an excellent belly-dancer. I also regularly did aerobics at a local female gym and in my room at home. My mum made sure I got plenty of exercise.

The only advantage out of all this was that before and after gym class I was able to get a good look at the girls changing in the locker room.

At home I still had to do all the housework, mum kept making sure I was acting feminine, continually criticising everything I did. Dad just treated me like a ditzy teeny bopper. My sisters still frequently made fun of me. I got no relief anywhere.

Worse of all though, Saffira found me a new boyfriend. This guy was not like Hussain at all. He was 19 years old (I had turned seventeen recently) and he was really big. Hussain had been my age and was just a horny little wimp who had been lucky enough to go out with me. This guy was a muscle bound jock who could have any girl he wanted and he wanted to go out with me. This just drove home to me that I really was turning into a girl. Not just a pretty girl, but a knockout. I had incredible breasts. Between the hormones I was taking, the aerobics, and the starvation diet mum had me on, I had an amazing body. I often got an erection just by looking at myself in the mirror while I dressed, that was really weird. I was really hot and now I had a really sexy man to go out with. Thanks a lot Saffira.

As for Hussain, he’d moved to Doha but we still kept in touch. We mailed mushy sappy love notes to each other. At my Saffira’s suggestion Saeeda took several revealing photographs of me posing in lingerie and sent them to him. Hussain was overjoyed and wrote to me that he had hung them on his wall and would stare at them for hours, pining away for me. Yeah right. Under all of this I was still a guy and I knew what he was doing. He probably used those pictures when he masturbated. Just what I had always wanted, to be the object of a guy’s sex fantasy.

Zaheer (my new boyfriend) was really impulsive, just like Hussain. Unfortunately, while I was able to fight off the smaller Hussain whenever he became too aggressive, I was powerless to hold off Zaheer. To begin with, Zaheer was satisfied to feel me off and to have me suck his cock. I really hated sucking cock, the thought of swallowing cum just repels me. I just don’t understand those girls who do. My girlfriend (before all this started) was quite a cock sucker. She loved cum. The taste and smell of it drove her nuts. Of course, not all girls were like this. I knew that Saffira hated sucking cock. But she thought it was alright if her little cousin did it. Zaheer was really hard to suck. His dick was much bigger then Hussain’s and it filled my mouth even before it even got hard. I nearly choked on it when it started growing, filling my mouth and moving into my throat pinning my tongue to the bottom of my mouth. Under those conditions I had to strain my cock sucking abilities to make him cum. But cum he did. He said that I was the best cock sucker he had ever dated.

But I could only hold him off for so long and eventually he got so lustful he just ripped off my abayah and underclothes, finding my chastity belt. I was terrified. After staring at it for five minutes he nodded and said that he understood since even if I was a whore at heart, I came from a religious family and so they must have seen through my modest façade to my depraved nature and made me take precautions Despite normal sex being an impossibility I was still one of the hottest dates he had ever had and he thought that dating me would be a real interesting experience. So we continued seeing each other.

Zaheer still wasn’t satisifed with cock sucking and soon introduced me to what he liked to call the subtle pleasures of anal sex. Yeah right! I have never felt more pain then when he shoved his massive thick cock up my arse again and again for the first time. I just started crying because of the pain and begged him to stop. All I could hear were his ecstatic shouts, at least he was enjoying himself. Finally, I was relieved by the feeling of his penis firing cum into my arse. Sometimes, when he wasn’t in too much of a rush he would remember to lubricate my arse before plunging his dick into it. Thank goodness for small mercies, eh? After getting reamed up the arse I usually couldn’t walk normally all day. If it was done without lubricant, which happened often enough, every step I took was painful and my arse ached liked crazy.

In the meantime, I was wondering where my parents were going with all this. They had told me that they were doing all this so that I would not be some sort of half female and half male freak. So they could decide whether I should be a woman or a man. I would not be some sort of freak. I could not be both. Yet here I had become some sort of female male. A sickening she-male creature. I looked like a red hot babe but I still had male genitals and I wanted to be a boy.

No, I was a boy and they couldn’t change that. Even as I stared at my reflection in the mirror I could feel the irony of those words. All my male musculature had disintegrated. One look at my breasts and my hips told me I was fighting a losing battle. I could only stare at the reflection of the hot blonde with a penis and repeat to myself “I am a boy, I am a boy.”

Of course my parents thought otherwise and Dr. Atta did not believe that at all. After all, I had now taken a second boyfriend. Naima of course threw in her usual set of lies about me crying over her shoulder that I wanted to be a girl and that the only reason that I had persisted in claiming to want to be a boy was because I was afraid of what everyone would think. Mum was totally convinced I wanted to be a girl and was doing everything to push me towards womanhood. As far as dad was concerned, I had always been his darling daughter Leyla deep down inside and that this was who I should be. Naima kept making me more and more girlish as her own perverse and draconian way of getting back at me for her childhood bullying.

When the holidays came we went away on a family trip to Doha. My sisters decided to up my regime as there was a lot more temptation in Doha and so insisted on me wearing a blinding veil everytime we left the hotel so as to preserve my purity. It was really weird being led everywhere like a lost puppy but at the same time kind of exciting. Not that I could get any relief of course. One evening when my parents went to the theatre,  Hussain came over to see me. My sisters left us alone and him and me sang cheesy pop songs in the room like a pair of love-sick kittens. Then he turned down the lights and put on soft music ready for long romantic night.

At least it was romantic for him. All I could think about was how much I missed my old girlfriend, the last one I had. A year ago we had also spent a romantic time at a hotel, in each others’ arms. Now I was the girl and Hussain was where I should be. I really missed my ex-girlfriend. I had dumped her over a childish reason. I didn’t care, as far as I knew there would be plenty of girls to come. But now I really missed her. Of course she was one of the people that my sisters had told that I wanted to be a girl. She was one of those who was hostile to me. The only time she spoke to me was when she needed to or when she wanted to make fun of me.

Anyway, me and Hussain stayed up most of night kissing and necking each other. Then, before my parents came home, Naima came in and suggested that I should break up with Hussain before I left. After all, I was now going out with Zaheer so it would only be fair to let Hussain know he could date other girls if he wanted to. As for me, I was just happy to get rid of Hussain. The less men I had to humour, the better. I also would not have to write anymore sappy debilitating letters to Hussain telling him how much I pined for him. However, I had not considered how evil Naima could be.

“So she told you then?” she asked Hussain

“Told me what?” Hussain demanded.

“That our sweet little Miss Leyla is really a boy.”

My mind screamed. Naima what are you doing? My face went deathly white as I looked back at Hussain. He thought it was a joke. Then when he looked at the terrified expression on my face he stopped laughing. “Wait a minute,” he said, “you can’t be serious.”

“See for yourself,” Naima responded. Before I noticed what she was doing, she came up to me and lifted up my skirt, swiftly yanking down my pantyhose and panties in one fell swoop to reveal the chastity belt. Then she produced the key, turned it and it swung open. My penis and balls were there for Hussain to see. I tried to push Naima away but instead my legs became tangled in my pantyhose and I stumbled in my high heels and fell on the floor. I looked up at him in terror as Naima smiled. “Farewell love birds,” she sang as she left the room.

Hussain looked at me with amazement. I slowly got up off the floor and fixed myself up. I was alone in the room with Hussain and he was between me and the door. I used to be bigger then Hussain, but he had matured and grown while I had become more girlish and small. No doubt about it, he could beat the crap out of me all he wanted. “Look,” I said, “you’re obviously upset and really pissed off at me. If you want to beat the crap out of me, I understand, but please show some mercy.”

Hussain took a step towards me. Anticipating a blow, I flinched and raised my hands up to my face. Instead he patted me on the shoulder and told me that he did not want to hurt me. He just wanted to get away from me. He said that if I wanted to be a girl, that was my business but that I had no right to fool him. He was obviously disgusted. He said he just wanted to get away from me. He headed to the door. As he was about to leave, he turned around and warned me that if anyone in town ever found out he had been dating a boy all this time, he would personally hunt me down and pummel me. I had to go down on my knees in front of Naima and beg her not tell anyone else about me. I was very grateful that he had not beaten me up.


Chapter 5

We packed up the next day and got back to Saudi. I was sinking into depression. The next day, Saffira told me she had a really big surprise for me. I groaned, that did not sound good at all. Towards the evening, Saffira told me that we were going out. Reluctantly I followed her into her car. The chauffeur drove through the city until finally we parked in front of an apartment building. Saffira led me into the building and up the elevator. She told me I was really going to love what was in store for me. I was sceptical about that. At last we reached an apartment door. Saffira knocked on the door. It was answered by a veiled figure who motioned for us to come inside. Once in she bolted the door and took off her veils and abayah to reveal a young woman who looked around Saffira’s age. She was wearing a bath robe. Smiling, she invited me and Saffira inside. Saffira told me to go sit on a nearby couch. I did so and she gave me a key; the key to my chastity belt. Saffira told me that she would pick me up later and left me alone with her strange good-looking friend.

When Saffira was gone, her friend introduced herself as Fatima. Smiling, she stood in front of me and let her bath robe fall down to the floor. She was wearing nothing but a short tight nighty that barely held her ample breasts and revealed her long shapely legs. I simply stared at her and I felt my penis harden. Fatima shook her head as all I could do was stare at her without moving. She glided on to the couch next to me and grabbed hold of my hand. “Abdul,” she said in a seductive voice, “has it really been so long that you don’t know what to do with a girl anymore? Maybe your sister is right and you really have become a girl yourself?” At first I blushed. She knew I was a boy. Then she sat up and kissed me on the lips and placed my hand on her breasts. Now I understood. She wanted me as a man. I hesitated for a moment.

Was I still capable? Did I really remember how to be a man in a relationship? I looked at cute Fatima. She smiled at me. Yes I did remember. In the next minute all the demure girlishness that I had about me vanished as I literally jumped on Fatima and gave her an aggressive passionate kiss. I threw off my feminine garments and let my long black hair down. All my feminine mannerisms that I had become so used to after a year and a half vanished. I stopped talking with a high feminine lisp and my old male voice came back. True my body looked totally feminine and slim and my breasts were still in the forefront, bobbing around. But I truly appeared like a man in a woman’s body. I really screwed Fatima and she loved it. I touched and felt every part of her great body and made her tingle. Finally I rammed my dick into her cunt and felt a rush of ecstasy come over me. Fatima let out a joyful cry as she climaxed, throwing her head back in delight.

The next day she served me breakfast in bed and we showered together. Saffira hadn’t come by yet and I wasn’t about to call her. Me and Fatima spend the day frolicking with each other and screwing around some more. I really scored with her. There was no doubt in my mind now. I was all male. I desperately wanted to be a man and to stay a man.

That evening, Saffira came to pick me up. Smiling, she told me that she hoped I had enjoyed myself but that it was time to go back home. Reluctantly, I once again donned my hateful garments, letting Fatima lock me back into my hateful belt before draping myself in layers of black. As we left, Fatima told Saffira that there was absolutely no way I was a girl. Saffira just smiled. On our way downstairs she reminded me not to get carried away. I still looked like a girl so I had better remember to keep acting like one. However, Saffira noted, I didn’t have to worry. Soon everything would be back to normal and my gender confusion would be resolved. All of this made me very happy. I would not be able to undo the humiliation of the past year and a half or the unpleasant experiences. But I felt confident that soon everything would go back to normal.


Chapter 6

The next day, my parents took me to Dr.Abbas’ new private clinic where he conducted plastic surgery. He had apparently been getting quite a name in plastic surgery and his reputation had grown immensely. I felt terrified when I saw him, after all this was the man who had given me breasts. I was however, assured by my parents that I was here so that the doctor could normalise everything. I was put under anaesthetic and joyfully anticipated waking up again with my breasts gone. When I did wake up, I was extremely dismayed to find that my breasts were still there and if anything they were bigger. Much bogger, a D-cup at least. As I sat up I felt a pain in my crotch. A sudden panic came over me. I quickly felt my crotch and there was a bandage on it. Why? I tried to call for someone but my voice was different. I looked at a mirror on the night table next to my bed. My Adam’s Apple, which had not been very prominent to begin with, was gone. My throat ached and so did my crotch. Dr.Abbas entered the room.

“What did you do to me?” I demanded. I was surprised by the sound of my own voice. It was higher and girlish.

” Well,” answered Dr.Abbas,” I covered up your Adam’s Apple, that would be a dead give away you know. I adjusted your vocal chords, giving you a higher feminine voice. Your parents didn’t think it was necessary since you spoke like a girl rather well as it was. But I convinced them that it was safer and was worth it as long as I was covering your Adam’s Apple. And of course I removed your penis and testicles and constructed a vagina in their place. “

I let out a hoarse screech in my new voice. “How could you! No! This can’t be happening! “

Dr.Abbas shook his head. “Look kid, I just did what your shrink and parents told me to do.” I couldn’t believe it. “I hope you’re happy,” he continued, “this operation isn’t reversible.” The next day he took off the bandages. There it was, my new cunt. I broke down crying. Later on I posed naked in front of a mirror. Staring back at me was my reflection. Now I totally looked like a hot teenage girl. I had long ebony hair. A shapely body. Large breasts and finally, a vagina. I spent the next week at Dr. Abbas’ clinic recuperating.

My mother and Naima came to stay with me. I screamed at them, but I just sounded pathetic with my new voice. Mum told me to stop being obnoxious. I should have known this was coming. I should stop pretending and realise that this was what I had always wanted. I was now fully a woman and could expect to stay that way for the rest of my life. I already knew that this was true. I guess I should have seen this coming. But I really did not want to be a girl. I could not imagine living the rest of my life as one.

The next few weeks were rough. At home I would periodically break out into tantrums during which I would lash out at anything or anyone around me. Finally I would collapse onto the floor and lie there sobbing. Or I would lie on the floor and thrash around. If my parents began to believe that they had made a mistake, they didn’t show it.

I never did see Fatima again. I now understood what Saffira had been up to. She had not done me a favour. My time with Fatima was more like a condemned man’s last meal before execution. This was my sisters’ ultimate revenge. I had experienced incredible sex with a woman. Now I would never have that feeling again. Now I would no longer be able to have sex with women, I would be on the receiving end from now on. The thought chilled me.

At least once I got “the chop” my life in settled down. Now that I was “all girl” my sisters quit bothering me so often. I guess they were all overawed by the fact that I had actually been castrated. After my operation mum and dad told everyone that Abdul had emigrated to America and that Leyla would now be living with them permanently. They had a massive garage sale where I had to watch as all of my old male belongings were sold. Then there was the final horrid thing that my evil sisters did. Naima had asked Dr. Abbas to preserve my genitals in a jar. Dr. Abbas had agreed. One night when my mother and father were out, my sisters showed me the jar. Then they lit a fire in our yard and forced me to throw my penis and genitals into the blaze. I had to watch as what once was my maleness burn to a crisp. After which I promptly threw up.


Chapter 7

Now that I was fully a woman – biologically that is, I still feel like a man inside – dad said that it was time for me to get married as I was at the age when most Saudi girls start to think about marriage. Mum and dad had had been looking at several men as suitable candidates for Saffira and Saeeda since they were also at the marriageable age and they said they would merely extend the search for a husband for me as well, but that it would be difficult because I couldn’t have children of my own. The thought of being in a wedding dress reduced me to tears. I had always fantasised about marrying a sweet attractive woman and living a great life with her as my partner. Now I was going to be the sweet attractive woman who would make my husband very happy. I felt like throwing up.

One day several months later they announced my engagement. Not just my engagement but mine and Saffira’s… to the same guy! He was a sixty-two year old businessman with a lot of money and a big beard. His name was Rashid and he was looking for a new wife because he had just buried his first and divorced his second because she was no longing pleasing to him. He had heard about my beauty and Saffira’s and approached my dad. He’d asked Saffira who agreed. I was never even asked. At first I couldn’t understand why Saffira would marry such an old guy but then she told me that she hoped he would die soon as he was old and smoked a lot. Then she would take over everything as first wife, including me. I asked if he minded that I couldn’t have children but dad said that he did not. He’d already had plenty of children with his first two wives and could always have more with Saffira. He was just taking me on as a kind of sex toy. I threw up when dad told me that.

On our wedding day Saffira and I were dressed in large puffy white dresses with tightly-laced waists. I could hardly breathe. Over the top were thick white veils that blinded us completely. During the whole ceremony and party I sat in darkness as everyone celebrated around me. Then we were led away to our new home on the other side of the city.

At our new house Rashid removed our veils and then explained to Saffira and me our future lives. He said that he was very strict about how his women should live and that in his opinion the only times a woman should leave the house are on her wedding day and for her funeral. So, there were to be no more shopping trips or social visits to other women. My house was also my prison. Inside the house we were to be veiled and gagged at all times save for eating, using the toilet and when he wanted us for sexual purposes. Then he flipped a coin to see who he would deflower first, (he thought that we were both virgins and precautions had been taken to maintain the illusion). It came up heads which meant Saffira. I was taken to my new room by a maid, stripped completely including the hated chastity belt, showered and then shown my new bedroom attire. There was a black ball gag that was buckled behind my head and padlocked, and a large sack that I had to climb into. It was made of very thick material and it blinded me completely. The only holes in it (after the one that I climbed in through was zipped up and locked), were for my hands. They were covered in thick leather gloves and then handcuffed behind my back to prevent ‘fiddling’. So, even after all this time I could not achieve release. I tried rubbing my new vagina against the bed but I could get nowhere near climax and in the end I fell asleep frustrated.

The following night Rashid had me in his bed. Once he had unveiled me, he grew very horny saying that I was the hottest girl he had ever been with. Like Zaheer he was very rough and liked to use all my holes. He also liked rubbing his knarled fingers over my tender breasts and his beard over my face. I still feel sick every time he gets near me. His breath stinks and he is only interested in his own pleasure. Still, when he uses my vagina I get some release but even so the thought of being with a man when I am a man myself, mentally at least.

My life now is a living hell. Rashid lived up to his promise of treating me as his personal sex object. He rarely takes Saffira to his bed, so pleased is he with my appearance and performance and there is always at least one of my holes aching from his rough advances. Not that Saffira minds of course; she prefers for him to stay away as that gives her more time with Aisha the maid, with whom she is conducting a lesbian relationship. I realise now that a lot of her actions with me are not about anything I have done to her personally, but simply because she hates men in general and I am the only one that she can wreak revenge on.

Although he doesn’t know I used to be a man, Rashid has worked out that my breasts were enlarged and she liked it so much that I have since had to undergo several more augmentations so that I now have two enormous perfectly round and fake-looking breasts on my chest. I have also had collagen implants in my lips so that I pout continually, (or at least whenever I am not gagged which is rare), and implants in my buttocks which are now so huge that I feel like I am sitting on cushions. He has also insisted that I dye my hair blonde and have permanent fingernail extensions so that even when my hands are not handcuffed behind me, I can do little with them. Finally, my tongue has been pierced so that my cock-sucking is even better for him than before and I have had large rings inserted in my nipples. These keep them constantly erect and me ready for sex. Worse though, when he is angry I am chained to the wall by them whilst he canes my enhanced arse. Each time the chain tugs on them the pain is unbearable.

In short I look like a total slut which is all that I am now. As I never leave the house, my whole life is dedicated to servicing him. After waking I am veiled and restrained, with at least one layers always covering my eyes and my hands always cuffed behind my back so that Aisha has to feed me and take me to the toilet. It is extremely humiliating. Recently I have had one more ritual added to my daily routine: a new exercise regime. The new exercise consists of a stationery bike. There is a difference, however. Instead of a horizontal saddle, this bike has a vertical one. Rashid started me at ten kilometres each day, currently I am at thirty kilometres, impaled on the bike for more than an hour. He says it has done wonders for my already large buttocks.

Whenever Rashid is not away from the house, he likes me near him. He may be watching TV or talking with friends and I must be always knelt at his side like a dog. Whenever he is alone he regularly gets his cock out and orders me to suck it. He has even introduced a special gag where the middle can be taken out so that it becomes a ring gag so that I can suck cock without him going to the trouble of unbuckling it. Of course I can’t speak gagged in such a way but he doesn’t care. He has never been interested in me in any way save for how I can be fucked.

The worst times are whenever he watches a game of football. At the start of our marriage he decided that I would receive one fuck for every goal scored. If his team wins then the sex will be conventional, if they draw it is oral and if they lose, anal. It is the World Cup next month and I am dreading it. Last time in Japan Saudi Arabia lost eight-nil to Germany.

So that is my life as Leyla, certainly not the one that I would have chosen that is for sure. When I think about what it would have been like if I’d not tried those veils on that day I cry for hours. I am used to being a girl physically now but being Rashid’s sex toy is unbearable. I just pray to Allah that he dies soon which he may as he coughs all the time from all the cigarettes that he smokes, but then I doubt that things will get better. Saffira has already told me about some of the plans they have for me when we are both widows and she is in charge. I need say no more…

 

Fräulein von Eltzen: Chapter 4

Fräulein von Eltzen  – Chapter 4

On Honeymoon  

by Dave Potter Copyright ©, 2002

Links to all parts of the story:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9


The following morning Anne Marie was woken up by Fritz undoing her leather sleeve and removing the gag from her mouth. “I’ve a little more energy now, dear,” he explained.

They were to set off that day for their honeymoon which was to be in the Swiss Alps.Anne Marie was excited about the trip as she’d always longed to see the majestic Bernese Oberland, and when she heard that Suzanne would not be joining them she felt over the moon. ‘At last I’ll be getting the freedom and adventure that I have been seeking ever since I came to Berlin,’ she thought. She vowed to relax her clothing regime whilst away from her maid, and she packed only outfits that were easy to wear, thinking to use the argument that she would require a maid to lace her more severe corsets, if Fritz questioned her.

“What will you be doing then, Suzanne?” she asked, a little surprised that the maid would not be joining them.

“Oh, I shall be staying here in Berlin, Madame, overseeing the decorating and furnishing of the town house that Herr von Eltzen has bought for you and Monsieur.”

Fritz’s father had presented the young couple with an elegant new town house just off Tiergarten as their wedding gift. At present it was still empty, but Anne Marie had no doubt that it would be magnificent once ready, although she did wish that Fritz had given her a little more say in the preparations.

Nonetheless, Anne Marie had never been happier than she was at present. She was free from her aunt’s tyrannies, married to the man that she loved, rich and beautiful, the possessor of a fine house in Berlin, and with a fortnight’s vacation ahead of her in one of the most beautiful places on earth. What more could a girl ask for?

As soon as they were alone in the railway carriage, Fritz had drawn the curtains and started kissing her passionately. As usual his hands crawled all over her body before finally settling around her waist. When they reached there however, he suddenly stopped his petting and sat up looking confused.

“What’s the matter, darling?” asked Anne Marie, who was equally perplexed.

“What happened to your waist, my love?” he replied.

“My waist? Nothing! What are you on about?”

“Well, normally my hands can span it easily, with the fingers touching, yet today they cannot. It got bigger!”

“Oh that! I’m just wearing a larger corset than usual that’s all, because of the travelling. Besides, without a maid, it will be impossible for me to lace as tightly as I used to.”

“Used to!” His face grew grave. “I thought that you promised me when we got engaged that you would stay a fashionable young lady and not return to the slovenly ways of the provinces.”

“And I will dear, what are you on about?”

“Well this seems to me very much like a return to your provincial habits. Very much indeed!”

Anne Marie didn’t know what to say.

“Anne Marie, you knew when you married me that I wish my wife to be a credit not a disgrace. You have let me down badly, and on only our first day together!”

And with that he moved to the opposite seat and stared out of the window.

“I’m sorry, darling, I never realised that it was so important to you. I’m extremely sorry indeed.”

It was over an hour later however, before he spoke to her again. ‘Hmm’, thought Anne Marie, ‘this is going to be more difficult than I’d anticipated.’

As soon as they got to the hotel in Geneva where they were to stay, Fritz insisted that Anne Marie show him the clothes that she had packed. Her travelling wardrobe consisted entirely of garments that had secretly been brought by her friend Greta from the country, who’d come to see Anne Marie get married in Berlin.

“Anne Marie!” he exclaimed, “None of these clothes are suitable for wearing here. Perhaps for a farm in darkest Prussia they’re apt, but not for the Alps. How can I be seen in society with you if you are wearing such outfits? People will think that I’ve married a kitchen girl, not a Baroness. I can’t believe that you have done this to me!”

“But I thought that we could relax since we’re on a vacation!” protested Anne Marie in tears.

“Relax! And what if we see anyone that we know, or if one of my professional colleagues turns up as often happens in places like this? There’s nothing for it, we’ll have to go out into town tomorrow and purchase you an entire Alpine wardrobe!”

Poof! There went Anne Marie’s cunning plan to work her way into easier clothing.

And so it was that their first day in Switzerland was spent not cruising the lake or admiring the mountains, but trailing around the boutiques of Geneva, a city that although small was surprisingly well-stocked with such shops, no doubt due to the large numbers of wealthy tourists that it attracted.

And to her annoyance, Fritz proved to be as demanding a shopping partner as her aunt or Suzanne had been. He rejected most of the outfits that Anne Marie suggested and instead picked out those with the tiniest waists, highest collars and tightest skirts. What’s more, he demanded that most of the dresses she bought be made out of wools or other thick winter materials.

“But it’s the height of summer!” she protested.

“Not on the mountain tops it isn’t,” he replied, “it’s very cold up there.”

Strangely enough however, they never once ventured up a mountain throughout their entire holiday and instead, due to the thick materials, high collars and hot sun, Anne Marie suffered from the vapours continually.

Initially, Anne Marie had objected to Fritz making her wear outfits with really small waists on the basis that without a maid or a lacing bar, she would never be able to tighten her corsets sufficiently by herself. Fritz however, merely brushed this objection aside stating that if this were the case, then he would be more than happy to assist her in the lacing process himself. Indeed, Anne Marie wished in the long run that she’d never brought the matter up at all, as Fritz applied himself to this new task with a vigour that even Suzanne couldn’t muster, and she daily found herself gasping for breath due to overtightened stays.

The discomfort didn’t end at night too. Fritz insisted that not only did she wear her night corset in bed, but also the training boots which for some reason he’d brought along with them, and again he offered to help with the fitting, a task that he seemed to rather enjoy Anne Marie noted.

And whilst he made every effort to make their nightly congress as enjoyable as possible for his new wife, once completed he stayed true to his vow of ensuring that the leather sleeve and gag become part of her nightly attire.

One morning however, when she complained that she had been unable to sleep well, due to the fact that the sleeve forced her to lie on her side, whilst she preferred the back, he stopped, thought for a while and then relented, saying that he considered her complaint to be a valid one. He then excused himself and said that he had an urgent letter to write to Suzanne regarding an enforced change in the house preparations, a letter that he posted later that day. Anne Marie could not understand what could be so urgent as to warrant such haste, but she was fast learning not to question what her husband did, and so she said nothing.

Apart from the unwarranted attention to her attire from her husband however, Anne Marie very much enjoyed their honeymoon. There were balls and dances at the hotel, tea by the lake, boat cruises, musical recitals, plays at the theatre, mountain vistas that were every bit as spectacular as she’d imagined, and a myriad of fascinating people to meet. For the first time in her life Anne Marie came across Italian Counts, Russian Princesses and English Earls.

Apart from her short time in Berlin with her Aunt Margaret, Anne Marie had of course, never mixed in society at all, it being almost non-existent in her small provincial town, and it’s depths were fascinating. She heard all about the scandals, hushed-up love affairs, rumours of the bankruptcy of several well-known figures who flaunted their wealth as if all was hunky-dory.

Anne Marie almost wished that she were in Geneva as a single girl, as her natural beauty combined with the modifications that her aunt and Suzanne had made to her appearance and deportment meant that she was a most desirable young lady who attracted the attentions of many of the eligible bachelors amongst the resort’s elite holidaymakers, much to the annoyance of Fritz.

But Anne Marie was a good girl, and whilst she flirted for fun at time, particularly with one dashing Italian, she never once entertained any serious notions of being untrue to her husband, and her time away from his side was restricted to dances in the evening with the young gallants who proferred their hands.

Time flies however when one is having fun, and Anne Marie woke up one morning to the sad realisation that the day ahead was to be their last in Switzerland. They spent their time that final day, promenading by the lake arm-in-arm, whilst gazing at the majestic peaks beyond, before boarding the train back to Berlin that evening.

The trip had been magical, but alas it was over. Nonetheless, Anne Marie still had plenty to look forward to; a married life with Fritz of course, and more immediately, the prospect of moving into their new home.

Links to all parts of the story:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Fräulein von Eltzen: Chapter 2

Fräulein von Eltzen – Chapter 2

A Dress For A Princess 

by Dave Potter Copyright ©, 2002

Links to all parts of the story:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9


“Now Anne Marie,” her aunt announced the following morning at breakfast, “we have a most important task in front of us. Your wedding is only a month away and we haven’t even commenced the preparations. However, do not fear my dear, when we were last in Paris I managed to obtain some catalogues of wedding gowns from the Worth, Rouff and Lanvin Salons. Why don’t you have a browse through them after breakfast dear and select a design that pleases you?”

Anne Marie was shocked. Why should her aunt have requested wedding catalogues from the fashion houses during their last visit to Paris. She hadn’t even had an inkling herself at that time that Fritz would be willing to marry her.

“Oh don’t be so surprised dear,” said her aunt who had obviously guessed her train of thought. “Your young gentleman hinted way back at that weekend that we spent with the von Eltzens that his inclinations towards you were strong. Now dear, another roll!”

Anne Marie had hoped that whilst she was browsing through the catalogues she would be allowed the use of her hands. To her surprise however, instead of removing her handcuffs, Suzanne instead replaced them with the irksome mono-glove. “What’s this for?” she asked.

“You picked up a black mark this breakfast, for not thanking Madame for presenting you with the catalogues, and you know what a black mark means…”

“But how am I to look through the catalogues if I am restrained so?” she protested.

“Oh don’t worry about that, Helga here will turn the pages for you. Now open wide so that I may fit your gag.”

Anne Marie did as she was instructed.

“Now Helga here will stand in front of you, holding the book before your eyes. Blink twice when you wish her to turn the page.”

And so Anne Marie spent the whole morning sat upright and immobile in her chair, looking at the catalogues and blinking at the parlour maid.

By lunch however she had decided upon a beautiful satin creation by the new designer, Jeanne Lanvin. Anne Marie wondered if it might not be a trial to wear due to its tiny waist and tight skirt, but it looked heavenly with exquisite embroidery all round and besides she reasoned, her aunt would probably object to anything that was not ridiculously restrictive.

Margaret was delighted. “A fine choice my dear!” she exclaimed. “I do believe that your tastes in fashion are developing. It is an exquisite dress indeed, a gown fit for a princess, not a mere Baroness! We shall set out for Paris tomorrow! Suzanne! Can you please go to the railway station and book a First Class compartment for the nine-thirty train?”

Generally speaking, this trip to the French capital was less demanding than the last, although Anne Marie did not enjoy the train journeys to and fro at all due to her aunt once again imposing restrictions upon her. She insisted that she wear her new cuirass corset which did not allow any bending at the waist and hips at all.

“But how am I to sit, Madame?” asked the perplexed girl.

“Obviously Anne Marie, you are not to sit at all.”

And so she spent the entire journey, rigid as a board, lain across three seats in their curtained compartment.

Once in the Salon, Anne Marie was measured thoroughly. “Mademoiselle, making a wedding dress for you will, generally speaking, be no problem whatsoever,” the assistant had said, “but I’m afraid that your waist, whilst neat, slender and most attractive indeed, Mademoiselle, it is well, how shall I say, unfortunately a little too…, broad perhaps for this gown.”

“How small should her waist be?” Suzanne asked immediately.

“Well, I should say, ideally speaking, perhaps about thirty-nine centimetres.”

Thirty-nine centimetres! That was nearly an inch smaller than at present! The thought of such a reduction horrified Anne Marie who was still struggling with her present sixteen inch corset.

“No problem,” said Suzanne, “we shall manage that with a little training.”

“Ah, but Mademoiselle,” said the assistant, “that is not all I’m afraid. You see, ideally speaking, although I’m sure modifications can be made if you desire so, this gown requires the wearer to have a waist that is perfectly circular in shape whereas yours Mademoiselle is somewhat elliptical.”

“But how is my niece to achieve a perfectly circular waist?” asked Margaret in confusion.

“Well, Madame, we are a Salon of gowns, not underwear as I’m sure you appreciate, and I’m afraid, I am no expert on this field. However, I do believe that Kurzweil, the famous Austrian corsetiere does supply a device, a type of belt, that is said to be able to achieve such waists.”

“I shall order one straight away!” declared Margaret.

The belt turned out to be a steel ring that fitted round Anne Marie’s waist, with two steel plates, on on each side which using screws, could be made to compress the sides of her waist so that a circular shape was produced. It was declared that for Anne Marie to wear the wedding dress in time she would have to wear it every night along with all her other attire. It was however, rather an extreme form of waist training and most painful to wear. The first time that Suzanne fitted it and began to screw in the side panels, Anne Marie howled in agony before fainting right away. The merciless maid carried on screwing regardless.

“Do you want to look your best for Fritz or not?” she asked when Anne Marie started howling again after being revived by smelling salts.

And so it went on. For the whole month leading up to the wedding, Anne Marie’s life was one endless cycle of preparations, beauty treatments, restriction and extreme waist training. And to make it worse, her aunt declared that she was not to see Fritz until the ceremony, in order to ‘make it more special’ and ‘reduce the temptation of losing her precious maidenhood’. Quite how she could have lost her virginity, even if she had had it to lose, Anne Marie couldn’t quite understand, the uncomfortable chastity belt made that certain, and for the poor country girl who had got accustomed to regular sexual congress with Fritz, the frustration of her desires was, at times, almost unbearable.

Links to all parts of the story:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Fräulein von Eltzen: Chapter 1

Fräulein von Eltzen

 by Dave Potter Copyright ©, 2002

Links to all parts of the story:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9


Introduction 

I have long been an admirer of Mike’s non-TG rewriting of ‘Baroness Anne Marie’, from Rhonda Wagram’s stunning original, ‘Baroness Gloria’, without doubt, (in my humble opinion), the greatest of all works of corset fiction. However, I have oft thought that chapter ‘The Final Stage’, whereby the hapless Anne Marie, trussed up in a cuirass corset, ballet boots, posture collar, gag and mono-glove decides to marry her corset-loving sweetheart, Fritz, was far from being final, and instead was perhaps only the beginning. Well, after emailing Mike about this, I decided to continue the story as I saw fit. Sadly the quality of the original work is no doubt lacking, but nonetheless I hope that you enjoy this sequel which explores the trials of the married life of the unlucky Baroness Anne Marie… 

Dave Potter, Copyright 2002 

Chapter 1 

An Ill-Considered Decision?

Why oh why had she accepted his proposal that day, when trussed up like a Christmas Turkey she had been presented to her lover and he proposed to her? Anne Marie sighed as deeply as her stays allowed. She knew full well why. The reason was simple. She’d been a young girl in love. Blinded by it in fact.

Well, that and the need to get away from the house of her aunt and guardian, Margaret von Leydenburg. For some reason, (probably connected with the fact that Anne Marie was entitled to part of the estate of her uncle, the late Baron von Leydenburg, although she didn’t know of this at the time), Margaret had sought to dominate and restrain her niece in every possible way imaginable from the moment that she’d stepped into her house.

Even before that moment in fact, Anne Marie reminisced. Through stealth and cunning her aunt had managed to strip her of the country clothes and dress her in a corset and confining blue outfit, with a cape that pinned her arms to her back, even on the journey from the railway station to her new home.

And it didn’t stop there! Within a fortnight her daily routine had become one of a high-class society girl, dressed in the latest fashions and, (much to her annoyance), physically fettered in some manner or another for twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. It was a far cry from her carefree upbringing in the provinces! At night she was corseted and her hand fettered with elastic loops, and throughout the day her hands were handcuffed behind her back, her corsets laced to their extremities, her neck held erect in high, uncomfortable posture collars and her feet forced into tiny boots with five and a half inch heels which restricted her movements to tiny mincing steps.

And that was when she was well-behaved.

When her aunt decided that she required correction, (which was far more frequently than Anne Marie considered just), a gag and uncomfortable monoglove were added to the equation.

No, it certainly wasn’t the life that Anne Marie, who’d longed to become a schoolteacher, was searching for. Escape from her aunt was a major factor in why she’d agreed to marry Fritz von Eltzen, a Berlin doctor, but no, it wasn’t the main one. The main reason why she’d acquiesced that fateful day was that she was madly in love with him. It was as simple as that.

“So, my dear, you’re to become a wife,” her aunt had announced that evening after dinner. Anne Marie did not reply, as she was working off what her aunt termed a ‘black mark’ and was therefore gagged at the time.

“That Anne Marie, is a great occurrence in any young lady’s life, as the joy of married life is unequalled.”

Despite her guardian’s straight face, Anne Marie wondered if she was perhaps being ironic. After all, Margaret’s own marriage with Baron von Leydenburg had been famously loveless.

“However, with the joy comes responsibility.”

Suzanne, her governess, who was seated in the room with the two ladies, nodded gravely in agreement. “A great responsibility in my opinion, Madame. Once a wife, a lady is no longer a free agent as you are now, Anne Marie. She must instead devote all her energies towards her husband.”

‘A Free Agent?’ thought the gagged and bound Anne Marie. ‘If only…’

“Suzanne is right, my dear,” continued her aunt, “entirely right. Except that in my mode of thinking, which is perhaps a little old-fashioned I grant, but nonetheless I hold to it, the responsibility starts not with the wedding, but in fact with the engagement.”

“Madame, you are correct,” chipped in Suzanne.

“But Anne Marie, I for one am not entirely sure that you are in fact ready for such responsibility. In fact, judging by some of the rebellious behaviour that you have exhibited as of late, unsolicited speech, complaints directed towards that charming Herr Klinnsman who painted such a fine portrait of you in the Worth gown, I can almost guarantee that you are not ready at all!”

‘Here we go,’ thought Anne Marie, who did not like the direction in which this conversation seemed to be headed.

“I fear that young Anne Marie requires more training from us, Madame,” declared Suzanne. “To help her on her way in her new role.”

“An excellent suggestion, Suzanne,” replied Margaret.

Poor Anne Marie felt like weeping. Whatever happened, no matter how hard she tried, the two ladies, (particularly the sadistic Suzanne), always found some reason to restrict her life further. If only she were free of them! Yet, Fritz her husband-to-be had declared that Suzanne should stay on as her ladies maid after the wedding. ‘Never mind,’ thought she, ‘I’ll deal with that easily enough when I’m Mistress of the House.’

“Well, that’s for later dear, now it’s time for bed. Off you go Anne Marie, goodnight.”

Anne Marie got up carefully and gracefully and curtseyed as well she could to her aunt before following Suzanne up the curved staircase to her apartments. After stripping her of her dress, corset and petticoats, Suzanne gestured for Anne Marie to go to the lacing bar so that her night corset could be fitted. This puzzled the girl, as her night corset, looser than the one that she wore during the day, did not usually require the lacing bar, but knowing the possible consequences, she made no objection. Suzanne however, seeing her confused expression, explained to her once she was firmly secured to the contraption.

“Mademoiselle, you needn’t look so perplexed. You heard what Madame said downstairs. Extra training is required, and it should start immediately! You are affianced to Fritz now and thus can no longer gallivant around like a young pony. For a start, a lady in your position should be chaste and virginal. We must take no chances in protecting you, not only from yourself, but also from the advances of Berlin’s young male population. Your fiancé has requested that you wear the following, and both Madame and I are fully of the opinion that it is a sound idea.”

Then, to Anne Marie’s surprise and horror, the governess went over to the wardrobe and took out a small box, out of which she pulled a strange metal contraption which she proceeded to fit around her charge’s naked bottom and hips. The metal felt cold against her skin and a grille pressed against her sex. Suzanne went behind her and tightened the device up before locking it. Anne Marie did not require her governess’s explanation.

“This mademoiselle, is a chastity belt. It will ensure that you virginity is kept in tact up until your wedding night. I have locked it shut and tomorrow Madame shall present Fritz with the key.”

Anne Marie could not believe it! She wasn’t a virgin anyway and Fritz well knew that as it was to him that she had lost her maidenhood! She was sure that her aunt knew too, yet despite this she was now to spend every day before her marriage locked into this uncomfortable mediaeval protector of virtue. Was there anything more that her aunt could inflict upon her?

Indeed there was it seemed, for then Suzanne started rubbing some foul-smelling cream into every pore of her face. “What are you doing, mademoiselle?” she asked in astonishment.

“Anne Marie, the day of your wedding is but a month away and it is imperative that you look your best. I have been worried of late, of the appearance of your skin which is somewhat greasier than it used to be, no doubt due to ll the chocolate cakes that you’ve been eating. This cream should help restore your complexion back to it’s optimum state.”

Anne Marie could not argue with that. She had been eating a lot of cakes lately, as her aunt had placed them tantalisingly in every room, and there was no doubt that her skin had suffered because of it. Consequently she made no objection, even though the cream had a somewhat rancid odour.

Suzanne however, was not finished. “Yes, the cream should help restore your complexion whilst the hood will help keep you free of wrinkles.”

‘Hood?’ thought Anne Marie.

Yes, hood. Suzanne placed a leather pouch over her head and tied it at the back. To her annoyance, Anne Marie’s vision was now restricted to two tiny pin holes. More irksome however, was the fact that it appeared to have a built in posture collar that was obviously longer than her neck which it stretched painfully, and lacing which Suzanne had now set to with vigour. When she finally tied it off, Anne Marie felt like her whole head was being held in a vice.

“This hood will become part of your nightly preparations,” Suzanne explained.

The governess then proceeded to lace the night corset onto her charge. Due to the high posture collar and her restricted vision, Anne Marie couldn’t see what was happening, but there was no doubt that the night corset felt longer and tighter than usual.

“And now the boots,” said Suzanne.

‘Boots?’ thought Anne Marie. ‘Since when has anyone worn boots to bed?’ If she had been able to she’d have questioned her governess about this, but unfortunately the laced hood held her jaws tightly shut and so speaking was an impossibility. Suzanne however, must have sensed her confusion for she said, “I know what you are thinking, Mademoiselle, that it is strange for a lady to wear boots to bed, but these are no ordinary boots you see. In order to ensure that the progress that you have made wearing high-heels is maintained, I have ordered these training devices. They keep your feet in the en pointe position all night long, so that wearing your beautiful ballet boots will not be such a trial for you during the day.” Then she added, “And we both know how Fritz likes you ballet boots, don’t we?”

That day, when Anne Marie had worn her hated ballet boots for the first time in front of Fritz, her lover had remarked on them several times and indeed gazed at her pained feet almost as much as her wasp waist.

“And,” Suzanne added, “these boots have the added advantage of being sans heels, so that any walking in them is quite impossible, which means that you won’t be tempted to take any midnight strolls to the chambers of Berlin’s young men!”

‘Do they have no trust in me whatsoever?’ thought Anne Marie. ‘I’ve never even shown any inclination towards any man but Fritz.

The boots took some time to fit onto her legs and when laced, the weight on her toes caused excruciating pain. She was glad when Suzanne rang for the footman who released her from the lacing bar and carried her over to the bed. Suzanne then fettered her hands in the usual manner and tucked her charge in.

“And now for the final touch,” said the governess. Your new hood, whilst undoubtedly beneficial to your complexion does nothing for you appearance. You look like that monster from Mary Shelley’s novel, and that will never do. However, I have this mask which will rectify matters.”

Suzanne showed Anne Marie the mask. It was made of porcelain and portrayed the face of a pretty china doll. The governess fitted it over Anne Marie’s hood, and tied it behind her head. She then placed a cap on the top of her head. Anne Marie now truly did look feminine and fashionable even whilst asleep. Unfortunately however, the mask completely obliterated her vision.

Blinded, restrained, stretched, squeezed and chaste, Anne Marie lay in bed for some time that night before she was able to sleep, her mind running over the day’s remarkable events. “Oh to escape this house and to sleep every night unencumbered alongside my beloved Fritz!” she said to herself. “Still, not long now!”

Links to all parts of the story:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

The Corsetmaker’s Daughter

This story was absent from the internet when I listed it on my compilation of all-time favourite erotica. Thanks to Nye North for sending me this copy and all credit to Querthe for writing it, it is his work after all. My only hope is that one day, he finishes it… please!

DP

The Corsetmaker’s Daughter

by Querthe

Chapter One

It was only a matter of discipline. It had been since the beginning, and it would be till the end.
He smiled. He strived to achieve perfection.
The perfect family.
The perfect daughter.
The perfect body.
He and his wife created perfection.
But they couldn’t show it to the world. Not yet. Not entirely.
They could show their daughter, they could be proud of her, proud of her aspect, her mind, her ideas, but their daughter was not complete. She was missing something. She was like a jewel, a precious necklace that couldn’t show the beauty it has due to the lack of a good background. He’d finally found the right background. He’d found just in that moment. He had the skills to do it, to create it, but he found that there was another problem. He was right, but the entire world was wrong. It was still not prepared.
He sighed, a little hint of sadness on his eyes. He looked outside. The last rays of the sun were a coloring of orange and violet the white room that was his studio, his laboratory, his shrine, the relic of his life hidden beneath a big white cotton sheet. A knock on the door let him jump.
“Yes?”
“Can I enter, dear?” his wife asked, her voice muffled by the heavy wood wall separating her from him, but also from something more, as she was not perfectly able to formulate words. “I was wondering if you…”
“Yes, my love. I’ve already finished it. I’m sorry I didn’t call you before, but my mind wandered and… Well, I found the solution.”
“Wonderful” she replied, turning the long door knob and entering slowly, closing the door behind her.
She was in her late forties, her long brown hair combed in two big braids then tied one inside the other and fixed with jewels, leaving some hair free to cover her ears, where long and golden earrings, hanging down to brush her shoulders, filled the holes in her ears. She moved near her husband, her stride slow and heavy as she was shuffling instead of walking. Her head was erect, a little too much for a normal position of the neck, but he knew that she was used to it and if without her neck support she was in considerable pain due to the lack of strength in her neck muscles after such a length of time using it. At the moment her head was held erect by a stiff collar in leather and suede, quite old and badly worn through age, a relic of her first year’s as a corset maker’s wife. Happy years.
“May Hue remembered where it was? Incredible.”
“Yes. She is incredible, but I can’t expect less from a maid that is smart enough to work for you as assistant, nurse and helper. She found it immediately and helped me to wrap it around my neck. She was not sure if I could bear this lack of discipline, but I have to admit that it is also quite refreshing to be able to see directly in front of me, I’m in some way missing my eyeglasses. What was the problem?”
“Too much use and too few stays.” he told his wife. “Now I’ve double boned it, and due to the fact I had to change the leather anyway, I elongated it another quarter of inch. Do you want to try it? Do you have your glasses with you?”
“No. But they are in the other room, so if after you could lead me…” she smiled with some difficulty, the high neck of the dress, made in deep blue velvet, covering the stiff collar, continuing over her heavily corseted torso, going down to her ankles as a bell, with several petticoats starched and white as the snow, hiding the small leather paraphernalia that was impeding her from separating her feet more than ten inches, the five inches high heeled calf-high boots made in patent leather and slightly boned to help her to hold her feet in that strenuous position, adding to her difficulty. The sleeves, tight from wrists to elbows, puffed out in small balloons up to the shoulders, covering the black silk opera gloves that were hiding the excruciating tight kid leather gloves that ended just above her elbows, brushing with their hot caress the shoulders, the triple layer removing from her the freedom to bend her arms enough also to scratch her nose or touch her chest, not speaking of the difficulty of bending the fingers. “I will be really grateful tonight.”
“Sonia!” he said, a smile crossing his face as he shook his head. “I will help you for sure. Here, come here, my dear…” he giggled, grabbing from one of his tables a dark and shiny object, a sort of cylinder with a dark brown lace on the side. She arrived to stand near him. They exchanged a simple, quick kiss then he proceeded to unhook some of the buttons at her neck, to be able to see the stiff neck corset she wore underneath the dress. “Really I created this? How horrible is…” he smirked.
“It’s not horrible. It’s a sort of prototype for your wonderful neck collar. Now, come on and let your wife be proud of you.” she mumbled.
“Your last words?”
“More or less” she smiled, sighing half in relief, half in pain when he unlaced the collar and freed her neck. It seemed so thin, so soft and white.
The muscles, having been held inactive for long periods, were a little atrophied, but she was still able to hold her head erect some minutes before her neck started to ache. “A quarter of an inch longer you said?”
“Yes, my love” he answered while wrapping the cold and rigid object around the neck of his wife.
She knew what it was. She asked for it after she saw it in the fashion magazine she bought each week a sort of ‘neck-stretcher’, designed to render the figure more feminine and elegant. But the equipment was bulky and made in metal and brass. She asked for something that could do the same, not only during the night, but, at all times, while she was dressed, while she was walking and when she was sleeping. Her husband thought about it and did some experiments until he arrived at the right dimensions and the right way to position the stays. He started to build some of them and quickly found a lot of buyers, and so he sold the idea and the equipment construction instructions to a big company that every month was paid him for the rights of the idea, and not only for that. Half of the equipment currently being sold regarding stays and corset arrived from him.
However the real projects, the neck stretcher, neck corset and so on he kept for himself and his family. He had sold the project with some modifications, some little changes that were not so important for the aspect or the cost, but really important under the aspect of endurance and strictness. In fact if the normal neck corset were bearable for only part of the day, maybe ten, maybe twelve hours for the bravest, the ones he created for his wife and his daughter were made to be worn for days and days without any reason to be removed except for hygienic purposes.
“Its… quite… rrrigggd!” she said, adjusting her head to the rigid and arrogant pose now required of her, nose quite vertical, her eyes looking at the ceiling. All of her neck, part of the chin and up to her ears was cupped, sealed and constricted inside the black column, stretching and reducing little by little the diameter of her neck, while at the same time it was reducing any possibility of turning her head, her breathe reduced to short, sharp gasps. When he’d finished tying the laces, he did a double knot and closed the neck corset using several small buckles and a leather flap to cover the lace and give at the whole paraphernalia a tidy and apparently seamless aspect.
“How is it?” he asked.
“Grrrrt” she mumbled, the strictness and the tightness of the object removing her ability to speak clearly. “It qqute hard t brrreth…”
“I know, but I think you will be able to bear the new strain on your neck. Dear, the effect is wonderful. You seem… No, you are a queen. If you like the effect, I think that I can try my last idea.”
“ Whhat?”
“Well, if I substitute part of the leather with rubber and some of the stays with a compressed plated spring, I can create a neck corset that can be regulated in height only winding or unwinding a key in a special slot at the base of it, so you can have infinite possibilities. At the same time it will be possible to release part of the neck corset to permit you to eat more easily and talk with more freedom. But I have still to work on that idea.” he sighed.
“No pprhhhbbem. Taaakke it hhhesy. Thhnnks…” she mumbled. “You akkkhhedy did a hooot fohh me and Samanthha.”
“Can I lead you to the glasses, so you can continue your day?”
“Thhhnkss”

She tried to smile, managing only a hint, her teeth completely clenched, the jaws locked. He grabbed her rigid and quite useless gloved hand and moved her to the door then on into the small room next door where on a desk were her glasses, special ones. They seemed simply a pair of round tinted glasses with a long and tiny rod on the left side, but in reality they were small mirrors, to permit her to see the world around her, even if in reverse. He took her hand and moved the fingers of his wife around the preciously made rod, so she could adjust the exact distance from her eyes and the angle needed. She trembled slightly at the warm touch of her husband, one of the few sensations she could feel through the double layer of silk and leather. He sensed it and hugged her fingers, his and her hand encircling the rod of the glasses. She forced her neck down a fraction of an inch, enough to let her eyes meet for a second his, giving him another ‘half smile’. He blushed and smiled also, then he took the glasses, put them on the desk and caressed both his wife hands, kissing them, finger by finger, where the nails were showing through the silk and the excruciating tight leather, each subtle touch of his lips a small bolt of energy directed to her crotch. He finished, repositioned the glasses in her hand and helped her to fit them in the right position.
“Dddeearhh…” she murmured, short of breath and blushing heavily. “You kknow whhhat it meanssh fohh me youhh touch.”
He smiled, trying to appear indifferent.
“Can you see around?”
“Yss, thnnk. Bbbbt I think we ccclld ajjust it ssmmway.”
“Yes, was thinking the same. But maybe I’ve already arrived at a solution. I will try it with Samantha, and if it will work, I can do something similar for you also.”
“Gggddd. Sss uuu lllatr”
“See you later, my love. And later tonight.”
He blushed again as his wife said “Looovhhhe”
“Eh, eh, eh!!! Ah. Where is our star?”
“Gggrrdenn” she gurgled starting to shuffle slowly down the corridor. “Whhht Mmme Huue.”
He smiled, sighed and closed his eyes a little.
“Good, let’s take a little rest from work at the moment. I want to see how Samantha is then I can start again. I want to tell her again how much I love her.” he thought. “And check if her laces are still tight enough. May Hue is sometimes much too soft with her.”
He started to move through the corridors of his mansion, one of the few in the area that were not owned by rich nobles. He gained his position with sweat and sacrifices along with a good dose of luck. He found the right occasion to buy a mansion, with a big green area around, enough to maintain a small stable with horses, a big greenhouse and a small house for the people that maintained the mansion and the terrain, also cultivating it for some fresh fruit and vegetables. The garden was the private one, a small and cozy place created exclusively for his two girls, where they could enjoy the weather and their spare time in complete privacy. It was adorned with exotic plants and flowers. To permit them to walk surely with the unsteady shoes they wore during the day, the paths were not made with small gravel but with perfectly smooth and accurately laid plates of granite. Everything there was done for them. Everything was done exclusively for her, Samantha, his star and his dream on the Earth. He opened the door, looking at the garden already in shadow, the sun already having disappeared below the level of the high wall that encircled the terrain. He immediately recognized the Chinese maid, and so he understood that the figure at her side, half lying, half seated, was his daughter.
“Good evening, my beloved Samantha.” he said, smiling.
May Hue turned and smiled, rising from the chair she was seated on and moving slowly to her master, the long silk Chinese-style dress in green and gold hobbling her, the short sleeves to show the black and shiny kid leather gloves caressing her arms from fingertips to shoulders. The short slit on the dress was enough to show the small feet trapped inside ankle high heeled boots
 buttoned along the external side with pearl buttons, silver cuffs around the ankles connected one with the other with a subtle chain in the same precious material, adding an unnecessary impediment to her stride, due to the fact that the cut of the dress was tighter that the length of the chain, but she insisted for having that as a sign of her servitude, of bondage. She was a slave when she arrived in England, she was a slave when she was freed by a friend of her actual owner and she continued to consider herself a slave of her master even if he did insist she was a free woman, a free maid. She liked living in that house, she liked being the maid of Miss Samantha a lot, due to the fact that she still did not understand what being a free woman meant, being so handicapped by corsets, gloves and other things.
“Miss Samantha is resting after a small tour of the garden.” she explained in quite perfect English, only a slight accent in her subtle and musical voice. “I insisted she relaxed for some minutes.”
“Under the sun?”
“No, Master. You know I know what to do.”
“Better check…” – he said.
“Yes, master” she smiled bowing a little. She was sure she did all as he requested. She always did something more than what he requested.
He moved along the path from the door to the quite vertical seat his daughter was almost lying on. It was a sort of slightly ‘S’ shaped leather padded board, enough to permit to rest a little even if tightly corseted, but not bent enough to create discomfort in the rigid torso and at the legs under the heavy dress. He was delighted to see that his daughter was dressed in a perfect summer dress he had designed and a crafted tailor had cut and stitched in cotton and veils. Of Samantha there was not a millimeter of skin visible, this being the only way she was permitted to sunbathe. Her legs were hidden under three white cotton petticoats, then the skirt of the dress was covering the petticoats, one tighter than the other, so she was constrained to have her lower limbs straight and one near the other, with no possibility of crossing them. Her feet were enclosed in handmade ankle boots done in fine leather, the high heels obliging them to be quite
‘en Pointe’, only the toes touching the ground. The torso was corseted, an easy four inch reduction achieved by the wearing of a double boned device, rendering her immobile from hip to breast, covered by the warm leather lined with silk. Over this the blue cotton of the dress, continuing over her arms down to the wrists and up to her neck. He knew that it was that way without being able to see it, due to the mantle in heavy black suede that was over her shoulders, brushing the floor and to the various white veils that were fixed to the large hat over her head and in front of her face, disappearing under the quite rigid neck of the mantle.
“How are you, my love?”
“Fine… father…” she said as clearly as she could, the veils moving slightly. Her voice was soft and panting, covered by the various layers that were stealing her also of a lot of oxygen.
“May Hue, is she gagged?”
“No, master. Maybe is the quantity of the veils I put over her face to protect her skin.”
“How many?”
“You have always insisted on no less than four, but I thought that double is a good number.
He smiled, nodding.
“She can look around?”
“Barely Master. Under the veils she is wearing the tinted goggles over her eyes so her wonderful green eyes would not be harmed.”
Another nod.
“Master, as you can understand, she is corseted as you requested when she is alone and during her leisure time, her neck stretched and tight but her head free to move, her arms sheathed by long kid gloves and the sleeves of the dress, but I think…”
“Yes?”
“Well, I think that she is so used to being restrained that maybe this time without any constraint is painful” May Hue told her Master..
“Is she right, my love?”
“Yes… Father”
“Mistress said me, sorry if I speak instead of her, but she remains out of breath quite easily, that when she moved to see the flowers, she tried to see them better, and the loose corset was quite painful, and the fact that her legs were free as her arms…”
“I understand” He nodded then moved to stand in front of Samantha. “So you like the flowers, my love? You know, you are becoming similar to your mother all the time. I obtained her love with a rose, you know?”
She giggled under the veil, more a murmur than a true sound.
“I… like… them… It… seems… they… attract me… Always…” she told him, each word being said with some difficulty and punctuated by a short gasp for air between each.
He nodded again then he touched her dress to brush away a fly. He widened his eyes.
“Thank you my love. I thank you a lot.” he said, grinning happily. “Sorry but I have to leave you. May Hue, it’s almost dinner time. You have an hour to change her. Lead your mistress to her room and prepare her for the occasion. Nothing too complicated, it’s not a formal event.
“Yes, master.”

She bowed then gently took hold of the gloved hand of Samantha and started to move the practically blind girl inside.

Chapter Two

May Hue, we’ve finished dinner. Please escort Samantha to the library, then prepare the coffee and serve it to us. I want to check my wife’s collar and corset before moving to the library also.”

Yes master.”

She bowed, standing on the left side of the young girl, the pale skin perfectly matching the blonde, almost white hair, combed in an elaborate hairstyle similar to a strange pyramid decorated with jewels, ribbons and false flowers that the Chinese maid added to the incredibly long hair of her mistress.

Samantha?”

Yes, father” she smiled, her long neck stretched by a neck corset similar to her mother’s, but not designed in the same way to lock her face looking at the ceiling and obliging her to use the special lenses.

She was puffing, her breath shallow, each breath an effort. But she was used to that. She was used to being dressed in this manner for as long as she could remember. And in some ways she liked it. She was sure that all those efforts she was bearing were for her good, considering also the looks of envy from the other girls and the strange looks from the men when she was out. Or at least if she had to believe to what May Hue said to her, because she was always blinded in public.

Do you think we can improve your beauty further? Consider my love. It would mean some more bravery on your part, and some more effort to create it for you from my side.

The daughter smiled as an affirmative answer.

You have some more ideas?” his wife asked, as she had the time to find a way to talk normally.

Frankly, I have found the perfection, but I was not able to display it to the world.” he answered sadly. “Until today” he replied, laughing slightly.

You finished…” – the mother asked as she gasped for air “. . . the project?”

Yesss” he nodded smiling, while the Chinese maid helped Samantha to stand up and move towards the library, her stride reduced by the incredible quantity of petticoats and by the tight hobbling underwear she was trapped in.

May Hue, please, I would like to hear what my father is saying.”

I’m sorry, my lady, but the orders of your father are more important than yours, and he said me to lead you to the library. The fact you objected to his orders will be punished.”

I know, May Hue, but…” she sighed then she towards her father. “Father?”

You know that she is right, my dear.”

Yes, father. May Hue, please proceed.”

Yes, my lady” the maid said, searching for a second in her pockets, then extracting a small bundle of black silk inside of which there was a leather ring plug gag with a short silver chain attaching the plug to the left strap and a small lock, in silver too. “Open wide.”

Ah, this gag. So good for girls that speak too much but they have just finished eating” said the mother. “Do as May Hue asks and open wide my love.”

Yes mom” mumbled Samantha, permitting the maid to fix the hard leather ring inside her mouth, behind her pearl white teeth.

The maid fixed the straps a notch tighter than necessary, distorting the girl’s cheeks, closing the straps with the lock.

Good, May Hue. Leave the plug that normally goes in the ring to avoid the drooling dangling, so my love will have no problems if her stomach refuses the quantity of food she ingested.”

Yes, master. Can we go, my lady?”

Samantha nodded as best she could, but before leaving the room, she turned and bowed in her parent’s directions.

Mmmm, mmmghtt…” she mumbled. “Mmmmghtt!” – she tried to say looking at her father, already a small trail of saliva starting to descend from her lips to her chin.

Thank to you, my dear. See you in the library.”

May I say something?”

Yes, Sonia.”

The library is always a little cold at this time and I fear that Samantha could have some problem.”

Mmmmghhtt…Samantha mumbled, miming a sort of ample mantle and trying to push her gloved hands on her face, but without luck due to the tightness of the silk, the leather and the dress sleeves.

The wool trap? Ah, a really good idea, my dear. It will be perfect for you to stay warm, and if you sit near the fireplace, it will be a sort of sweating session that will help you also to digest the meal. It will also help accustom you to learning how you might feel in the future.”

Fhhhture?” she gurgled.

Yes, but let’s leave the explanation for when we are having coffee. May Hue, the library, please.”

Yes Master. As you wish, Master.” she said, bowing and disappearing with her mistress and prisoner.

The maid transported Samantha on the library where a sparkling fire was already and always warming the room. She helped her to sit on a comfy chair and used leather belts to fix the torso and the ankles of the girl to special buckles present on each piece of furniture where a woman can stand near or be seated on.

Mmmghtt!”

Yes mistress, I will be back as quickly as I can.”

Mmmmght! Nnnnghtt!”

Samantha tried to move her head and shake it, but the collar and corset impeded her attempt to do so.

Is something wrong?” May Hue enquired of her charge.

Shhhtrrp!”

Too tight?” she asked anxiously.

Gnoo…”

Oh, Mistress. I’m sorry. I’ll tighten them a notch more.” she said, tightening the straps until the leather was digging into the dress and Samantha’s tender flesh.

Samantha sighed and seemed to be relaxed.

Please give me enough time to find the wool trap and to put on you. Then I will have to leave you alone to do the coffee.”

Mmmghttt, nnngthhh!” Samantha moaned, as she thrashed a little, trying to move her head and indicate she wanted something more.

The gag, mistress? I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to close the plug. I know that you are not exactly happy with drooling saliva, but it’s unsafe for you. You only just ate and Master left me no instructions about it” she said leaving the room. “But be sure that I will close it and tighten it a little more when I get be back.” her voice echoing down the corridor.

Thhk uuu.”

A minute after something big and woolly moved inside the room, its long tail, orange as the rest of its fur, swinging high on the air. The cat purred, arriving in the vision field of the blonde.

Mmmoohaar.”

The cat looked at her, as it was curious, but it was used to her since it was born, four years before, to see its owner restrained in one way or another. As if answering at a signal, the female cat jumped on her lap, moving slowly over the crushed together legs and lounging against her rigid torso, the tail curved over the body in front of the muzzle. Finding the position comfortable, the animal started to purr slowly.

Mmmght?”

Samantha tried to look at the cat, then she moved slowly her rigid arms and stroked gently with her crimpled fingers the fur, paying attention not to dig too much with her double gloved hands on the cat’s flesh, as she did the first time, not feeling anything with two excruciating tight gloves over her skin and numbed extremities. Both of them started to doze, enjoying the warmness of the room and their situation, even if opposite one to the other. Some minutes after the blonde heard the door of the library opening again and tried to see who was there, but the collar and the position of the chair were impeding her while also at the same time trying not to move too much to avoid disturbing the cat.

Samantha, my love, where is May Hue?” her father wanted to know as he arrived in her field of vision.

Iii mmm room to kkkch th wooohl traaap…”

Oh, yes, the wool trap in your room.”

Mmmm, mmmhh” she answered positively.

Do you think I can remove your gag for a while? I would like to speak with you in an easy way. I know that good girl’s stay silent, and you took this in the best way, trying to be gagged as much as you can, and so for you it’s not a punishment, but well, I sometimes like to hear my beloved star’s voice”. he said smiling, removing the strap and extracting the ring, already soaked with saliva.

Thank you. She went to my room to find the wool trap, but really I have to wear it over my dress? I’m worried…”

About what, my love?”

The dress. I think it could be ruined by the sweat I will produce” she answered, continuing to caress the cat that was sleeping peacefully.

No problem, my dear. It will have to be washed and put away anyway if you decide to follow the new improved rules that will permit to you to become a perfect girl, I mean more perfect than you are already. As I said before, you have to be accustomed to the heat, because if all will be as I think, you will be always be sweating inside the final outfit.”

But in this case the leather of the outfits will…”

No, no my love. Don’t be afraid. No shrinking of the leather. Be sure . . .” He stopped, looking at the entrance of the library, while his wife was slowly sitting on a chair near the fire. “Oh, May Hue has returned.”

My master, I beg your pardon for my lack of control over Samantha for this period, but I needed to go and…”

No problem, May Hue. I’m not upset, I understand that you can’t be in two places at the same time, but this doesn’t mean you will not be punished.”

Yes master.”

This means that after you finish dressing Samantha and serve the coffee, you will go to your room and wait for me.”

Yes master.”

Outfit number five, black, with blindfold and ear plugs.”

Yes…” she gulped. “Master.”

Good. I like your obedience.” she was told as a smile crossed his face. “Now, while I fix my beloved Sonia, please do your duty with Samantha.”

She bowed and put on the small table near the tied girl, a heavy mass of white wool lined with shiny black silk. With expert hands she unfolded a sort of strange garment similar to the one her enslaved Mistress was wearing, but with some deep differences. The presence of the Chinese maid disturbed Mohair, who jumped lazily to the ground and moved near the fire, starting again to purr, but its eyes were fixed on its Mistress, as ready to obtain again its realm, the lap of Samantha.

May Hue, to avoid ruining the dress, please tighten only the external lace. Can you use some ribbon to fold as much as you can of the skirt?” Samantha asked, while the maid started to undo the strap at her ankles from the chair.

Yes, my lady. I have some of them with me, because I also thought the same thing.”

Samantha smiled while the maid used pink two inch wide silk ribbon to lace the big dress, enclosing totally the slender legs of her mistress, then she covered the cloth mass by a big and in some way loose wool bag closed at the bottom and reinforced with leather to avoid that the high and thin heels of her shoes would rip or ruin the wool or the silk.

Various long laces were dangling at the rear of the bag, and others were doing the same along the two edges of the dress, on the back, and near the wrists of the thumbless, mitten-type sleeves and up to the slender neck of the dress. After having unbuckled the strap at her torso, the maid helped Samantha to rise from the chair and quickly she finished covering the girl who was already starting to sweat from the heat within the garment. Her fingers closed with tight knots the laces from the tiny waist to the excruciating slim neck, trapping the blonde beauty.

Please, May Hue, it’s so hot! I don’t know if I can bear it all night… Please gag me in some way, with a cloth or with the plug ring gag you used before. Oh, it’s so hot, and my corset is so tight that I really believe I can’t resist. Please…”

Samantha, stop whining or I will padlock the gag and forget where the key is.” her father told her, looking her right in the eyes. “You are not a baby any more. I could accept this type of behavior when you were younger than now, but my love, you are a girl, you are a lady, and a lady suffers in silence for her beauty without aid of a gag. They must be an aid, not the medium of the silence.”

Yes, you are right, father, but…” she blushed. “When I was young I had no such… Oh my, you know…”

Sensations?”

Yes” the now embarrassed girl mumbled.

I know, I know. And I’m happy that you like how we let you grow up, or you will not approve of this now.”

Her mother grunted trying to laugh, but that was the maximum she could do, because she was tied with silk ropes, standing rigid near the chair where her husband was seated, her eyes not useful because they were locked so she could only stare at the ceiling, and her mouth was packed with a gag similar to the one her daughter used, but with the plug deeply inserted in the ring, rendering her moaning a soft noise. She mumbled something and closed her eyes.

Mom, I know you can understand me, so please, convince my father that in this condition, and with the idea that tomorrow I will start my new training, I’m too excited, and so I need a gag.”

Sonia mumbled something, trying to move her head, clenching her gloved hands.

She is agreeing with me, my love. Be brave, be adult.” he said smiling again, caressing his daughter’s face and kissing her on her sweating forehead.

May Hue, please, the coffee. I will finish the costume. I created it. I know how to fix it in the right way.” he said then he looked at the folded garment still on the table. “Ah, the mantle also. Good girl. I appreciate it, and to demonstrate it, your punishment will be less harsh.”

Thank you Master.”

No earplugs.”

Thank you Master. With your permission…” she bowed and left the room again, slowly and teetering on her high heels and in her chains.

The man caressed again the face of his daughter, still sitting up, her arms stretched slightly at her side, trapped by the various layers of material covering them. He gently grabbed her wrists and crossed them, tying the various laces until her hands were trapped and unable to separate one from to other, then he used a strap still dangling and passed it through a small leather ring on the dress, locking the crossed wrists just under her waist, as if she was resting them in a modest and submissive way.

I want to speak with you, so this is also one of the reasons why I will not gag you as you ask. Believe me, I’m really sorry.”

Yes father. I know, that all what you do is for my own good and I thank you for it” she told him as she tried to smile and rub her cheek against his hands.

Nothing, nothing, my dear”

Can you finish the costume? I would like to enjoy the evening and Mohair.”

Ah, yes. In a couple of minutes you will be hooded and mantled.”

The hood was more a balaclava mask in heavy wool that was also lined internally with silk to slide more easily over the skin and protect it from the itching effect of the outer material. As the rest of the dress, it was closed at the back with a lot of laces, and when he finished, only her eyes were visible through a small slit in the fabric.

Is it tight enough?”

Iths the maximum?”

He pulled again on the laces before answering.

Yes, this is the maximum. No more, considering that you will have to sleep in this.”

Yesh, father” she answered, her voice muffled by the thickness and the tightness of the mask. “Unghagged?”

He laughed.

No, no, my love. When you are in bed, your lips will be closed with my special corset gag with the pear intruder inside. I’ve just redesigned the pear, enlarging it.”

She crooned, imaging her mouth stretched, her teeth enveloped in the special cavities filled with one of the strange but magic creams created by May Hue, as the one she had used on her skin and hair on those years, keeping her skin soft and strengthening her hair and helping it to grow stronger and longer.

Mmmm…” she mumbled, trying to talk, but the silk was impeding her ability to breathe freely. Each small breath she inhaled drew the mask tight to her nose, thus reducing even the minute amount of air her corset and the mask permitted to be drawn in. With each exhalation the silk of the mask became slightly damper and she knew from experience it would bring further difficulty in drawing breathe throughout the evening and into the night.

Now the mantle, so you can sit down.”

As if it understood, the cat mewed and moved a little nearer to Samantha. Her father lifted the other garment, a long mantle made of the same white wool, not lined, and closed it around her neck with a small buckle, on the back before others were fastened to create a sort of poncho ending just under her hips. She sat stiffly and puffing, permitting at the man to close the strings on the bag engulfing her dress until her lower limbs were crushed inside the underwear, the petticoats, the ribbon tied dress and the bag.

Perfect. Now you are snugly encased in warm wool. I’m sure that this small sauna session will help you.”

Yesh . . .” she sighed, enjoying the moment, or at least trying to do so. “. . . Father.”

He kissed her on her nose, then sat on the chair and started to run a gentle hand over the corseted waist of his wife, who moaned, until May Hue arrived with a silver tray with the coffee and some cookies.

Thank you, my dear. You can go to your room and prepare for your punishment. I will arrive as soon as I have finished.”

Can I apply the outfit as much as I can Master?” May Hue asked, knowing that for sure she couldn’t fix herself more severely than he would.

Yes.”

Can I ask you a question Master?”

He nodded.

Miss Samantha needs to go to sleep, but if I’m punished, who will attend the duty? I’m her maid and…”

No problem. Samantha will sleep in the wool trap tonight. There will be no problem with the dress as it has to be washed anyway. Tomorrow she will start the training for her new body and skin. And it will not be a short one, I believe.”

Yes Master. Goodnight, my Ladies.” she said, bowing and exiting.

Mmmmght! Nghttt?”

Sorry, my dear, but I can’t understand anything with the gag in your mouth. Give me a second… Here we are. Your lips are freed.”

Thank you dear. So tomorrow Samantha will start to know your final project?”

Not so simple my love” he said, pouring a cup of coffee for himself and one for his wife.

Wahths is the projhect?”

Oh, my love, you know that I have searched for as long as I can remember for perfection in a human body, in a female body?”

Samantha nodded.

And you know that since you could understand me, I tried to give you my support to become the most precious woman in the world?”

She nodded again, or at least as much as the collar permitted.

Corset, tight gloves, petticoats, chains and other things are useful, but the real perfection, well, it’s not this. It’s a lot more. But I found it.”

The Projhect?” she asked as a small drop of sweat starting to move on the free skin, while the rest of the sweat was starting to be absorbed by the silk and the wool.

Exactly. I finished creating the design, and I have with me all the materials necessary and the craftsmanship to do it, but I had one thing missing.”

What was that my dear?”

Well, Sonia, I can create the final corset, but the world is not prepared for it. The aspect of this creation is not what now the people at present call ‘beauty’”- he said sadly. “But I’ve found a solution for it. I found it just after I spoke with Samantha in the garden. I can use the latest technologies available to create an outer appearance that will add some more to the practical perfection of my creation.”

And I’m invholved on this, fhather? I will be able to thry your final outhfit, the one that will oblige meh to be ath perfect as you whant? As I whant?”

You will be the first real girl, my love! You will be the first one that will be as the first woman in the world, as Eve! But this, as already I said, will lead you to new level of endurance and training. Do you think you are ready for this?”

She thought. For as long as she could remember she had been treated as the most precious thing in the universe, and also the pain of the corsets, armbinders, gags, masks and so on were nothing compared to the love of her parents, and the joy in her father’s eyes when she could parade his creations in public, receiving also compliments for the appearance and her lady-like way to be, also if sometimes she had to hide things from other people because she knew that if to be a silent girl was polite, not everyone could understand that being gagged with leather, rags and a mask of silk on her face under the thick veil was not torture, but only a way to be sure to be elegant and polite.

Yesh, I’m ready. For you. And for me.”

My dear…” cried her mother, sniffing. “If only I could hug you now. I’m so happy.”

Mhe too mother. I will dho everything for my father, for you and ohur happiness, also if this means to be always swheating or be helpless more than whhat I’m ushed to being.”

The evening passed by easily with Samantha, and Mohair, enjoying the warm room, with the cat enjoying lying within the folds of the voluminous costume of its mistress. But suddenly Mohair jumped to the floor looking annoyed at the girl, then moving away out of the room.

What’s the problem, my dear?” her father wanted to know.

Samantha started to move and whine on her chair.

Well, father… I’m sorry Mohhair hash been dishturbed, but… I need to go.”

Sorry?”

Well, normally I’m already in bed, and you know that when I’m in bed I’ve had time to be freed of the problems linked to… you know…”

Ah, the bathroom. Oh my, I forget that you must depend on my sanitary device during the day, and so now…”

Yesh. And I can tell you that I will not be able to hold it more than…” she tensed then relaxed again, mumbling. “Father, I’m so ashamed… I… couldn’t…”

No problem, my love. My bag can hold double the quantity involved. It’s the first time?”

She mumbled something negative.

Buth I think it’s still empty. A part of it… but with the ribbon and so on… The space is not…”

I understand. Now I will release your mother then you so she could help you while I will go to punish May Hue, then I will return and check that your nighttime paraphernalia is perfectly fixed on you and around you.”

Thank you father.”

No problem, my beloved.” he said lovingly “I’ll advise you that tonight will be the first one with both bed and bed sheets covered with natural latex.”

Father, with that latex around me, I will melt away!” she cried happy. “I will finally not look as plump as I see myself when not corseted and restrained as I want.”

Giggling he shook his head.

What will you do when the latex will be your skin?” he thought. “If for only a sheet near your covered skin you are virtually jumping for joy, what you will do when the latex will be around you always, night and day and you will not be free to feel the air? Ah, my love, what a wonderful daughter you are.”

The Tale of Anastasia: Part 8

Links to all parts of the story:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Chapter 15

Punishments at Miss Garner’s Institute for Ladies of Leisure were executed in the cellar, an area of the house that Anne had previously never been allowed to see. Following her meeting with the headmistress, she was returned to her room and stripped down to her chastity belt, boots and corset. Her arms were taken from their binders and rebound in a leather monoglove, a leather gag, far larger than her fleur de bouche fitted into her mouth and finally a cloak with large hood was wrapped around her so that no one would learn the identity of the unfortunate who was to be discipline as punishment at Miss Garner’s Institute was very much a private, not public, affair.

Perkins led her down the stone steps and opened the door to the cellar. The heat was astonishing and the reason for it immediately became apparent, for it was in those depths that the mighty boiler that heated the whole house was located and as she watched a burly sweat-stained workman was busy shovelling coal into it. Aside from him and Perkins, Anne was alone.

The maid led her over to a wooden bench into which she was strapped. At first she wondered about the design for it did not hold her seated as she would have expected, but instead bent over, her head near to the floor and her pinioned arms up in the air like the mast of a great ship. More worryingly however, was that the vast moons of her enhanced derriere were left exposed to the air and facing upwards in full view.

“It is normal Miss Anne, for a husband to chastise his wife and indeed, many do so regularly even if they have not committed any wrongs just to remind them the consequences if they did. Your fiancé in fact has already indicated that he intends for you to receive some kind of chastisement though I do not know if it will be misdemeanour based or simply routine. However, he has already commissioned a suitable paddle from Briggs’, the premier paddle manufacturers in Bloomsbury, with the Norfolk crest engraved upon it. For now however, as he is absent in France, we shall have to make do with the official Miss Garner’s paddle with the school logo on it and Sykes here. Sykes, would you be so kind?”

“Right away, ma’am.”

The workman came over and took the paddle from Perkins. “How many, ma’am?” he asked.

“The standard punishment for a misdemeanour is five paddles and according to Miss Garner, Miss Curzon here has committed two such misdemeanours; the first being disobeying myself when ordered to complete the duty of visiting an elderly member of the community and the second being the failure to take note and gain success when being tutored by Capt. Hope. Therefore, the punishment shall be ten paddles. You may start now, Sykes.”

“Certainly, ma’am.”

Swish!

The pain was a shock! A painful shock! Anne cried out but the gag soaked up much of the sound and little more than a groan was heard.

Swish!

There it was again, only this time worse as her derriere was still tender from the last paddle. Anne cried out again and Perkins tutted. “Please, Miss Anne, show some restraint!”

Swish!

Anne tried to show restraint but it was hard. Tears flowed from her eyes and…

Swish!

…and yet at the same time she realised that she was wet. Why? There was something…

Swish!

… something pleasurable about this! But why? That wasn’t right, that wasn’t…

Swish!

…wasn’t natural! This was painful, oh so painful! She wanted it to stop, to end and yet…

Swish!

…yet at the same time she didn’t; at the same time it really excited her in ways that she didn’t really…

Swish!

…really understand. Oww, how it hurt! How many? How many had she endured now? Six? Or possibly…

Swish!

…possibly seven. So if that was the seventh, then only three more…

Swish!

…more, nay only two more left! Never had two seemed so many and yet….

Swish!

…yet it was almost over, the last one now, bring it on! Bring it on! Come on I need this! Oh…

Swish!

… oh yesssssssss!!! It is over, it is accomplished!

“Thank you Sykes, now can you release the young lady and prepare her for the second stage?”

“Certainly ma’am.”

“Miss Anne, you have completed the first stage of your punishment. Here at Miss Garner’s punishment comes in two parts; firstly the pain and secondly the opportunity to meditate on your sins and repent. For every misdemeanour there is a prescribed meditation and repentance period of twelve hours and there fore your encapsulation shall be for twenty-four hours exactly. Sykes here will now lace the punishment corset onto you.”

By this stage Anne was attached to a lacing bar and Sykes was approaching with the most remarkable corset that she had ever seen. In fact, it looked like no corset at all but instead a body suit for it was to e fitted from her toes right up to the crown of her head, leaving only her arms and face free. “The middle is always laced to half an inch smaller than your usual and contains a stem waist half an inch longer, Miss Anne,” informed Perkins, who seemed to be enjoying her mistress’ travails. “It shall be a trial for you to wear, miss.”

A trial it indeed was. It took over an hour to lace fully and once done Anne could not move a muscle, from her en pointe toes to her head forced back by the elongated neck. Worst of all though was the middle which crushed her mercilessly. She was as a statue and due to the heat of the room, was already sweating profusely. Once done, she was released from the lacing bar, her hands cuffed together in front of her and laid out on a hard bed that lay in the middle of the room and from the smell, Anne suspected might belong to Sykes.

“Now Miss Anne,” continued Perkins, during meditation and repentance, your arms are to be in the perfect reverse prayer position. Sykes, if you would be so kind.”

“Certainly ma’am.”

Perfect reverse prayer! There was nothing so horrible, so painful! Anne shuddered but said nothing. After all, a lady does not complain and, after this ordeal, she would not be disobeying orders again in a hurry, even if a friend was in trouble!

It took another ten minutes or so to twist her arms into the difficult perfect reverse prayer position and then lace them up neatly. Then Sykes produced a strange contraption like a small platform with rods sticking upwards about two feet in height. It was mounted on wheels. The burly workman then lifted her immobile form up and placed her on the platform, the rods keeping her from falling over whilst Perkins secured her on with straps. Once that was done the maid explained fully the rest of her punishment.

“Miss Anne, please come over here!”

Anne of course could not move anywhere but Sykes obligingly wheeled her across the room and through a doorway into another, smaller chamber. In this room stood a bulky woman, her figure shrouded by a cloak and hood.

“This is another one of the pupils here being chastised for misdemeanours,” Perkins explained. “It does not matter which of your friends it is, punishment is a private affair here; I only show her to you so that you may understand what meditation and repentance entails.”

The maid then went over to the figure and undid the cloak. It fell to the ground to reveal a thick woollen dress with no arms. This however, was not what shocked Anne. What shocked her was that in the place of a face, a pot mask with closed eyes as if a doll were sleeping, was seen. Throughout all of this, the figure remained motionless and seemed to Anne to be more a mannequin than a living girl.

“First the petticoats,” decreed Perkins as Sykes came back through, her arms laden with vast quantities of material. No less than ten petticoats were put on Anne before a thin cotton dress covered her body. Then the main dress, in unbecoming thick grey wool. Anne shuddered. Already the cellar was hot; wearing this it would become unbearable! The dress was button on and the temperature rose dramatically. Perkins however, had not finished.

“I shall place the head hood on now, which has the pot mask attached to the front. Wearing it you shall see nothing and hear very little as the ears are padded. Your world shall become black and silent and the heat together with your red raw buttocks shall remind you or your sins. Use this time to sink within yourself, to contemplate your sins and to beg forgiveness. Tomorrow at the same hour you shall be removed from your cocoon a new and more moral butterfly. Now the hood, Sykes!”

The hood was leather and laced tightly at the back. It compressed her head and made her feel claustrophobic and alone. With no eyeholes the world went black and heated up immediately. The only reminder of the outside world was a small warm breeze through the holes by her nostrils.

Anne felt an extra weight being put on her which she assumed was the cloak and then some motion as she was wheeled into the corner of the room where she was to stand. Then there was nothing. At first it was unbearable, she wanted to free herself to fight; not having any idea or the time scared her. The heat built up and she sweated more. She realised that she had to keep still but it was hard. She longed for sleep but it would not come and instead she was alone in her prison, pain all over her body, compressed from every angle; yet strangely safe somehow.

That safety gave her solace. Since she had come to England her life had changed in all aspects; she had been enhanced and turned into a plaything; stripped of her rights and given a new name and religion. All control of her life had been taken off her and she was now due to marry a stranger and exist as his toy until he passed away and then… well, then her sons would take control. It was all so unfair, so overwhelming, so wrong…

And yet at the same time, in England not once, not even for a second, had she ever felt in danger. It was hard, yes, but it was safe. She was looked after here. Even down in this cellar, this unbearably hot cellar where the sweat poured off her, where she could not move a muscle, entombed in cloth and corset, even here, she knew that they were looking after her, that she was safe, that she would come to no harm. These thoughts helped her and slowly they mushroomed in her mind. She recalled the two minor offences that she had committed to warrant this punishment. At the time she’d been angry that she was being punished for those offences – after all, hadn’t the circumstances been special, excusable. Now however, she realised; that this safety was sacred, it was the Holy Grail that all people sought. But it could only be achieved if one obeyed the rules and special circumstances or not, she had broken them. No, the punishment was just, even if it was hard to bear. And with those comforting thoughts she drifted away on a raft across the endless ocean of her mind.

Chapter 16

Anne only realised that she was being released when Perkins took the pot mask off her and the dull light blinded her eyes. Then the thirst hit her and she gratefully drank the whole jug of water that the maid offered. Following that she was released. The other hooded figure was gone now. Slowly the punishment corset was removed and her own stays loosely laced on. Then she returned upstairs for a long hot bath and afterwards bed. Anne then slept for twelve hours straight even though she had done absolutely nothing for the twenty-four that preceded it.

Following her punishment, Anne was more docile than before and accepted everything with a resignation that she herself welcomed as it made life far less stressful. She had subconsciously committed herself to them and resigned from even the office of rebellion, and having done so life was far more enjoyable. Instead she entered fully into the preparations for her marriage which was now only a few weeks away and every thought was connected with trying to please her future husband as much as she could.

The punishment had also had another, pleasing side effect. The extended period of time in the punishment corset had caused her to lose weight and her body to become accustomed to the new, tighter measurements. Miss Simpson asked her if she wished to return to the old measurements which were the ones that her fiancé had decreed, but Anne knew that he would prefer the smaller ones and so kept at them. This meant that the wedding dress had to be re-stitched at some cost but she cared not, for she knew that it would make him happy.

Two days before her wedding, Anne had her farewell meal at Miss Garner’s. It wasn’t a great experience as most of the girls – including Clare Hawkins – had already left to get married themselves, but the food was exquisite and Anne was glad that Miss Garner had decided to mark it. Then the next day it was down to London on the train where she met her step-father at St. Pancras station and they travelled to M. Saint Laurent’s boutique for a final fitting and ironing out of details and then to the hotel itself, the grand Cumberland in Bloomsbury where her reception and wedding night would later be spent. “Look!” said Lord Robert as they pulled up in the car outside. “That building there is the Soviet Embassy; isn’t it fitting that you truly enter English noble life in its shadow?” Anne looked at the great modernist stone building that dominated the street and thought. Yes, it was fitting in a way.

Anne wishes that she could give a detailed account of her wedding day now, but in truth it was all a blur. She was woken up at four in the morning when the dressing started and finally ready in a stunning creation of white silk and flowers by ten. Then she minced outside to a waiting horse and carriage which drove her through the streets of the capital to the great abbey of Westminster where she alighted and slowly walked down the long, long aisle to where her groom awaited. Then the service, then a drive back through the capital to Hyde Park where there were photgrpahs and then finally back to the Cumberland for the reception where over a thousand members of the nobility had gathered to wish them well, dine and be merry. After the meal, (of which Anne ate virtually nothing), and the speeches, there was the ball, but in her dress Anne could not dance or indeed do aught but stand and smile and so, as tradition dictates, a podium was wheeled out and Anne placed on it, (secretly fastened on in a manner akin to when she was punished), and then wheeled into the very centre of the ballroom and whilst the orchestra played and the couples waltzed, Anne stood there for all to admire, rotating slowly like a piece of crystal in a shop window, very much the bride on the wedding cake. Then, around ten, she was removed, the whole assembly raised a toast to her, and she was taken upstairs by Perkins to the sumptuous bridal chamber in order to be prepared for the greatest night of her life.

Once in there, Perkins undressed her, peeling off the fine layers of silk until, for the first time in a year, she was wholly naked. Then she was bathed in a gigantic bath of rose water before finally being powdered dry and led back into the bridal chamber.

“Right Miss Anne, now you are to be prepared,” said the maid. “The Duke has decreed…”

“Stop!” rapped out Anne. She couldn’t even believe herself when she had said it.

“Excuse me, Miss Anne…”

“You forget Perkins, it is ‘Mrs.’ or indeed ‘Lady’ Anne now!”

“I apologise Your Ladyship, but…”

“No ‘buts’, you are to leave Perkins!”

“But Your Ladyship, His Lordship…”

“I am your mistress, not he, nor my uncle, nor Miss Garner! When I tell you to leave, you will leave! I shall call when I wish you to prepare. I need time alone to think. Go!”

Perkins clearly did not wish to go but she also realised that the balance of power had changed and her stern expression changed into a meek, “Yes, Your Ladyship.” Like a mouse, she scuttled out of the room, carefully closing the door behind her.

After Perkins had left, Anne walked over to the door and turned the key in the lock. As she did it, she felt strange and at first couldn’t grasp why. Then it came to her: for the first time in months she had used her hands for something, she was not completely helpless and dependent on others. She took those hands and held them before her face before rubbing them slowly against one another. The touch was unreal; a touch denied for so long. A flash of fury streaked across her mind: what right had society to deny her of so simple a pleasure?

Anne walked across to the window and gazed out, not caring that the world might see her nakedness. There across the road it stood, a great hulk of square grey stone, a symbol of another more modern, very different world. The red flag resplendent with triumphant hammer and sickle fluttered proudly in the evening breeze. Some would say more free, more human. When Lord Curzon had mentioned in passing that the wedding hotel would be opposite the embassy, the very symbol of her old country and self, then she had thought nothing of it, but as the hours had passed, like the mustard seed, the germ had grown into a great tree. Here she was, alone and unhampered, with salvation but across the way. All she needed to do was slip on a dressing gown; sneak out into the deserted corridor, down the stairs, out through the servants’ door and across the road. Freedom! No more Lady of Leisure, no more Anne Howard, Duchess of Norfolk, bound, squeezed, restrained in every imaginable manner, the property of a man whom she hardly knew. Once through those doors, Anne could die and Anastasia Kolyakonova could be reborn! Independent Anastasia, the Anastasia who had a happy life to look forward too across on the other side of this continent, the Anastasia who had been so happy. Would they accept her? Of course they would! The papers would love it, Modern Soviet Woman forced into a marriage against her will to some backward Lord who would keep her tied up inside his castle, secluded from the civilised world. She would become a heroine! The British would hate it of course; they would moan and rail, protest that this was their way, their culture, their religion, but against the might of the USSR, what could they do?!

Anne turned away from that window of opportunity and walked over to the bed upon which her dressing gown lay. As she did, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and stopped. She turned to see, for the very first time, her new naked self. There before her was not the Anastasia Kolyakonova that she knew but instead another woman, more sensual and voluptuous. Where a boyish figure had once been was a mass of curves: huge orbs stood out from her chest, obviously grafted on, as round and ripe as melons, with no sag and enormous nipples the size of thimbles, whilst below them, even without a corset, a miniscule waist that she could encircle with her two hands. And then, below that, it broadened out again, massively into buttocks of prodigious proportions, two huge maternal orbs, as if someone had inserted a tyre pump into her anus and pumped and pumped and pumped until no more air would fit in. She touched those buttocks, as firm as any car tyre. She was no longer a woman but more a cartoon caricature of one, exaggerated in all the right places like Betty Boop in Mr. Disney’s cartoons. “What have they done to you, Ani?” she asked. No reply came. Ani did not answer because from those enhanced lips she could not. They were not hers, but instead the lips of some Biblical temptress like Bathsheba or Salome. Ani of course, had never even read the Bible.

Anne on the other hand, knew it well.

“They will be able to remove them, cut your hair, and restore you to whom you once were.”

But they were empty words, devoid of meaning or desire. Already her hands had strayed to those erect nipples and were caressing them gently.

“You have to choose, Ani!”

The voice was urgent but Ani did not respond. She could not for she had ceased to exist months ago. Anne looked across at the window with the fluttering flag of freedom through it. Then she turned to the bed, walked across, lay on it and pulled on the bell rope by her side. Within a minute Perkins had entered.

“Perkins, I have rested quite enough. I need preparing!”

“Yes, ma’am. The Duke has decreed…”

“Stop! I care not what he has said. You shall prepare me to my instructions not his. Now listen carefully…”

And Perkins did listen, and she did follow those instructions. And an hour later she left her mistress to fetch the Duke of Norfolk just as her mistress had instructed her to.”

Anne Howard waited in the pitch black room. Her every action was concentrated on keeping conscious. Around her middle her wedding corset, lace to an excruciating thirteen and three quarters inches bit into her and sapped her. Her neck was similarly squeezed and stretched and although she lay on her front, her eyes gazed at the ceiling. Her feet, laced into the endpoint bedroom boots were strapped against her enormous, inviting buttocks whilst her arms, dead from the pressure, were twisted into the excruciating and elegant perfect reverse-prayer position. But the crowning glory of it all was for her husband, her derriere, lifted by a cushion for ease of access, open and ready for use, the hole painted with a pair of inviting red lips.

‘He shall remember his wedding night for all eternity!’ declared the Duchess of Norfolk, Anne Howard silently behind her fleur de bouche, as Anastasia Kolyakonova slept silently in her grave.

Postscript

Readers may be interested to note that I had originally intended quite a different ending to this tale and should you be dissatisfied with the one that I finally chose, perhaps a brief summary of the alternative might improve your demeanour. In my original ending, Anne was again naked and sent Perkins away, she went over to the window and saw the Russian Embassy and was fixed on her plan to escape. This she attempted but downstairs was met by her step-father, (who had guessed her intentions), and escorted back upstairs to wait for her husband. However, once upstairs, Perkins reveals that she is willing to help Anne in return for a passage to the USSR herself as she has longed to live the life of a free woman for many years. And so the two dress as maids, (extra costume procured by Perkins), and sneak across to the Embassy where Anne reveals who she is and is given sanctuary. Anne then goes to Moskva with Perkins and becomes something of a celebrity in a manner akin to Western women of our world who marry an Arab and then run away from the harsh life. She plans to have operations to reduce some of the enhancements made to her but not all the changes undergone in Britain can be reversed and a doctor advises her that if she stops corseting, she will have problems, so atrophied are her muscles. And so Anne becomes a film star in Soviet cinema portraying English women in adaptations of Shakespeare or Dickens and the great Russian heroines from Tolstoy and Pushkin. In time she becomes a member of the politburo and ambassador to London. There she meets up with Clare who is now widowed from her marriage to Cpt. Hope. And so it is that Anne takes her back to Moskva with her and they enter into a lesbian relationship of intense passion, living out the rest of their days in a beautiful dacha by a lake some hundred kilometres away from Moskva.

As I said, it’s up to you which you prefer. – DP

Links to all parts of the story:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8